Deadly Anniversaries

by Marcia Muller

  One of her duties was to deal with mail. She almost added the square envelope to their personal stacks until she saw the return address label. She knew all about Evelyn Marlow and Peggy Prescott. When she was hired last fall, the first thing Jill said was, “Oh, you look so much like a dear friend,” and her eyes filled with tears.

  Laura immediately thought her hopes of a job were dashed, but overriding that disappointment was her instinctive response. She reached out, touched Jill’s arms, gave her a kind look. “I’m sorry to make you sad.”

  Jill brushed away tears. “Carlson, doesn’t that sound just like Evelyn. Oh my dear, I knew today was going to be a good day. When I got up this morning, a goldfinch lighted on the windowsill. You know that’s our state bird. Such a thrill. This afternoon here you are and every time I see you I’ll think of Evelyn and how much fun we had.” The job was Laura’s.

  She held the square envelope in her hand. Not long after she started to work, Carlson—that handsome god of the screen—found a moment alone with Laura. “Thank you for being kind. That’s what I want for Jill. People think because she smiles and is cheerful that she’s a happy person. She is...fragile. We lost a baby and she’s never been the same. I want you to protect her. Ever since Evelyn died, Jill’s been afraid to go to the edge of the terrace, look over the wall at the rocks. Your most important job is to shield her from sadness. She can’t bear sadness.”

  Laura enjoyed carte blanche. She determined what mail Carlson or Jill received. She picked up the silver letter opener, sliced.

  Dear Carlson and Jill,

  Our dear Evelyn died a year ago Friday. I know both of you have fond memories of her. Please come Friday at 8 p.m. We will raise a glass of champagne in her memory and share special moments.

  There is also the matter of the investigation into her death. I have heard some unsettling rumors and feel that we should discuss how such attacks can be handled.

  Warmest wishes—Peggy

  * * *

  Sometimes Walt opened the mail after breakfast. Sometimes a mound grew—especially if there were some big bills coming—and he rushed through a batch on a Friday night with a gin and tonic. This was a gin-and-tonic mail night. Suzanne was in Paris, spending every sou he’d earned this month. She always spent the first two weeks of August in Paris. He came to the elegant envelope, gave a whistle. A card from Peggy? He blinked and the gin fog cleared a little. Yeah, last year. He’d been glad to have some place to go with Suzanne out of town. But it wasn’t a fun night. Splat for Evelyn. So what could Peggy want? But he was bored, bored, bored. Maybe this would pop a genie from a lamp. Or maybe a Jeannie.

  Dear Walt,

  I know how close you were to Evelyn so you will be glad to help us all remember her. Just a small gathering as it was the night she died. Friday night at 8 p.m. Champagne in her honor.

  Of us all, you perhaps have the best reason to remember her and will be especially concerned about the ugly rumors that her fall was not an accident.

  I know I can count on you being here.

  Best regards—Peggy

  Walt stared at the note in her forceful writing. I know how close you were to Evelyn...

  Damn.

  * * *

  Deputy Sheriff Cass Dulaney wished he was at the table. He was feeling lucky tonight. But playing cards on Friday nights stamped his ticket for this damp, ridiculous trek. Buddy Hayes was his poker buddy. Funny to think of Buddy as coming over all sensitive about the invitation to a requiem. Cass thought you never knew what a woman was going to do and this was just a sister coming up on a hard day. The first anniversary of her sister’s death. Tough. He looked over the report on the investigation. Yeah, the case was open. Roger said it could have been accident, could have been suicide—unlikely—could have been murder. Roger was a stickler for facts. The dead woman wasn’t drunk, clumsy, or stupid. So why would she fall? She was rich. She had a reputation for liking a variety of men. Did somebody push her? Could be. That’s why the case stayed open. If gossip was swirling around town as Peggy Prescott claimed, the sheriff’s office wasn’t in the loop. Was it possible? Sure. Could a rehash a year after the event lead anywhere? In Cass’s judgment, the likelihood this clambake would fry any fish was slim to none. But you do what you have to do for a friend and he liked Buddy Hayes. He eased his way in the shadows on the far side of the house, and fetched up in darkness at the edge of the terrace. About half an hour before the festivities would begin. He was grateful for his down jacket and long johns beneath his jeans. Damn cold. Always cold up here right off the ocean.

  He felt the quiver of his silenced phone, hauled it from his pocket.

  “You have that night camera?” Buddy sounded tense.

  “Got everything. Camera. Lights. Action.” There was no appreciative chuckle. Probably tough for Buddy, coming back here, exactly one year later.

  * * *

  Buddy dimmed the headlights as he pulled into the circular drive. No other cars yet. He’d wait until someone else arrived. He had no wish for intimate conversation with Peggy. It would be painful. The sisters were both dark-haired, slender faced, attractive, but Peggy was Evelyn without a heart. Over time, any sense of resemblance faded. He’d come to a few of Peggy’s Friday soirees, skipped several when he thought she was a little too interested, then become a regular after Evelyn arrived. Evelyn was a mess—flirtatious, pretty, glorying in having and spending money—but something about her fascinated him. An openness to adventure. A disregard for convention. An essential kindness.

  * * *

  Irene Porter cupped her favorite bracelet in one hand, looked at the glow of the rubies in light from the Tiffany lamp. Hers. All hers. She lifted her gaze to a Caravaggio. Color everywhere. Her dress was multihued ripples of silk. She’d built a world beyond the imagining of most. She lived for color, for richness, for possession. Had Evelyn told someone about the painting, her suspicions? Irene looked at her diamond-encrusted watch.

  * * *

  Jeremy turned off the headlights. “Are you sure you want to go in?”

  Meredith was already out of the car, looking up at the starry sky. “I have to find out.” Her voice quivered. “Peggy sounds like she thinks I pushed Evelyn. I didn’t. I loved her.” A swallow. “Look. There’s a car already here. We’d better go in.” How could Peggy think Meredith would hurt Evelyn? Meredith felt dizzy and sick, as if the world were tumbling and she couldn’t hold on.

  * * *

  Walt’s head ached by the time he turned into the circular drive, his fingers clamped to the steering wheel. Damn scary drive after dark. He’d kept the windows down. Lots of air. Still hard to see.

  A rending sound.

  Stupid dog statue. He’d knocked it over. Why did anybody have a stone Irish setter on a driveway? If you wanted a dog, get a dog. He wished to hell he were someplace with some swift handsome dog. Dogs liked people. He didn’t feel right now like anybody liked him. His head hurt.

  * * *

  Laura drove slowly. She didn’t know if people were fashionably late to this kind of... She didn’t know quite how to think of the evening. A moment of remembrance. A call to arms. Perhaps she’d be the last to arrive. She would murmur excuses for Carlson and Jill. Another engagement, so sorry, sent Laura to tell everyone how often they thought of Evelyn. And of course if there were anything upsetting in the way of accusations, she would tell Carlson. But not Jill. Never Jill.

  She swerved her VW behind a Suburban that was parked on a slant. Uh-oh. Looked like the right front was smashed against a granite block.

  * * *

  Golden lights gleamed in tall post lanterns around the perimeter of the terrace although their glow was scarcely noticeable with the brightness of late summer evening. Peggy wondered if anyone recalled that she was wearing the emerald blouse and silver trousers and teetering heels she’d worn the night Evelyn died.

  That night,
Evelyn had fluttered bright as a monarch from person to person, and there was the cheerful hum of conversation and laughter. Tonight there was silence, the guests stiff and quiet.

  Buddy stood with hands jammed in his pockets. He declined a drink. She almost pushed him, champagne for Evelyn, decided this was not the moment. The moment would come.

  Irene held a champagne flute, her face masklike. Peggy thought it might be well to begin her attack with Irene, ask how were things in the art world, that is, the art theft world. That would be entertaining.

  Meredith’s date stood with an arm around her shoulders. Peggy felt a flicker of irritation. Yes, she resented Evelyn leaving that much money to a cousin. After all, she had a sister. Even if Peggy didn’t need money, family should be preferred.

  Peggy fought to control anger. Carlson and Jill weren’t here. It was almost a quarter after eight. She would have to begin soon. They were all waiting to say something nice about Evelyn and pepper her with questions about the gossip she’d heard. Well, not yet. Did Carlson and Jill think they were too important to come when invited by Peggy?

  Walt was the only one seated. Sprawled, actually, on a wicker chaise. He’d declined champagne, held a tumbler of gin and tonic.

  It was time... Suddenly she had a wisp of memory from out of nowhere. Evelyn home from college, rushing out the door on a date, turning to smile at Peggy, “Your day will come, sweetie. Remember if you smile a lot, everyone will love you.” But they hadn’t. She’d smiled. And smiled. But somehow always people moved past her, held out their arms to Evelyn. Even her parents. She blinked. Another memory. Evelyn rushing toward her with a pony-size plush reindeer. A big red nose blinked and blinked. “For you, sweetie.” Peggy felt the tears on her cheeks. She’d slept with her stuffed reindeer for years. Now he sat in the corner of her room, minus one ear, his nose no longer red.

  Walt pushed up to his feet, lumbered toward her. “Hey, get a drink, Peggy. You need one.” He lifted the tumbler, slugged down a big swallow. “Look, you mean well. Trying to do the right thing for big sis. Hell, she’s probably quaffing some kind of nectar right now. I’m fuzzy on drinks up there.” He gestured with the tumbler toward the red-streaked sky, vivid with the sun splaying below the horizon. “Anyway, let’s all get drunk and you can warble out the crap somebody’s been sending your way. Who says one of us pushed Evelyn?”

  * * *

  Laura slipped into the shadow of an evergreen and gazed at the people on the terrace. She’d read the stories about Evelyn Marlow’s fall, seen the photos in the paper. The sister was upset. She faced the guests with the edge of the cliff a few feet behind her. Laura shivered when she looked at the weathered wooden railing on the steps. That was where the fall happened. Did Evelyn stumble going down the steps or was she standing on the platform, looking out at the sea? Maybe there was moonlight streaking the water. Did she somehow get too close to the edge and lose her balance? Suddenly Laura wished she hadn’t come. That heavy guy was drunk. Maybe he was trying to help, but she didn’t like the way his words slurred or what he said. A tall, thin woman reminded her of a bird of prey, watchful, dangerous. An older man looked grim. A nice-looking guy had his arm around the shoulders of a pretty girl, but her face was streaked with tears. Maybe this wasn’t the moment to say anything.

  * * *

  Peggy rubbed her face roughly. Nothing was going as she’d planned. She wanted heartfelt tributes. “The time Evelyn and I went to Vashon.”

  “Remember when Evelyn had a divorce party?”

  “Did you ever hear Evelyn sing ‘I Dreamed a Dream’?”

  She could feel the boom of the surf as if the waves crashed over her. None of them would do as she wanted. All right, if that’s the way they wanted it, she would attack. Now. “The sheriff thinks one of us pushed her.” She heard her own voice, high, thin, harsh.

  It was as if statues faced her.

  Peggy felt so alone, so hated. She cried out, “We all know the truth. Evelyn was a tramp. A rich, beautiful tramp.” She pointed at Buddy. “Did you know she was sleeping with Walt? If you don’t believe me, ask him. But maybe you knew.”

  Walt took a step toward Peggy. “Shut up.”

  Buddy never moved, but his angular face jutted.

  Peggy took a step backward. “Meredith wanted money. She tried to get money from Evelyn—and now she has money from Evelyn.”

  Meredith gave a cry. “You’re awful. Evelyn was kind and good. Not like you.”

  Peggy wanted to slap her, pull her hair. All of them were against her. All of them. But Carlson and Jill didn’t even come. Anger bubbled. “Who’s not here? Carlson and Jill. I know why they didn’t come. Carlson was always looking at Evelyn. It must have been Jill who was out on the terrace, who ran at Evelyn as she stood looking at the ocean, ran with her arms straight out and her palms slammed Evelyn’s back and Evelyn was pushed over the edge of the platform—”

  “No.” A slight figure burst out of the shadow of the evergreen, ran toward Peggy. “She never ever did. She never—”

  Peggy drew in a sharp ragged breath and began to move back, one step at a time. “Evelyn?” The name hung in the night air, as everyone stared between her and the young stranger with the short black hair and gray dress. “Evelyn!” She screamed.

  Laura held up her hands. “No, I’m not—Stop!”

  Peggy backed away faster now, her face white, her mouth working. “Evelyn, I didn’t mean to push you. But you took Buddy away.” She looked toward Buddy. The expression on his face, the loathing. “I couldn’t bear it, the two of you. It was an accident.” She clutched at her throat. “Evelyn was looking down at the water and I don’t know how it happened, but I was running—”

  “Don’t,” Laura shouted. “Stop! You’re too close—”

  Peggy sobbed, “—and she was there, and I pushed and she was gone. I didn’t mean—”

  “Please.” Laura held out both hands.

  Peggy was at the edge of the cliff. Suddenly she began to topple backward. Her face twisted in panic. Her scream rose in a crescendo.

  Laura rushed to the edge. “Oh God—she’s on the rocks—the water’s slamming her—oh, someone help!”

  Buddy made no move. His eyes held devastation but no surprise.

  Irene folded her arms across her front. Perhaps there was a slight easing of her taut thin face.

  Meredith clung to Jeremy and sobbed. He held her hard and tight.

  Walt moved unsteadily toward a chair, sank down. “Jesus.”

  Heavy footsteps thudded on the terrace. Sheriff Dulaney, a camera in one hand, looked over the edge of the cliff. “She must be dead.” His voice was calm, authoritative.

  There was silence except for the boom of the surf.

  * * *

  THE BITTER TRUTH

  BY PETER LOVESEY

  “Do me a favor and read this.”

  “What is it? Hot news?”

  “From me?” Tysoe of the Post shook with laughter. “It’s an obituary. Take a look while I get the drinks.”

  Mark Peters angled the sheet of paper to catch the light over his shoulder.

  Judson Perrin: Forensic Toxicologist

  who exposed the Ladybird Killer

  Judson Perrin, who died yesterday, was the forensic scientist whose evidence sensationally unmasked the serial killer, Dr. Hugo Burke-Miller, in 1980. Unrivaled in his knowledge of plant poisons, Perrin suggested to the police that the deaths of up to five of the doctor’s elderly patients from multiorgan failure may have been caused by absorption of abrin, one of the most fatal toxins on earth. Abrus precatorius, known also as the rosary plant, is common in tropical countries and produces shiny red-and-black ovoid seeds looking like ladybirds and often strung together to form rosaries. When he heard that the doctor under investigation had lived in Belize, where the plant grows abundantly as a weed, Perrin recommended a search of Bu
rke-Miller’s Cheltenham property. A box of the seeds was duly discovered. Even so, proof of murder was difficult to obtain because there were no reliable validation tests for abrin in the body after death. Perrin assembled a dossier based on a close study of the symptoms reported in the final hours of five rich patients who had named the doctor in their wills. The subsequent trial was one of the most sensational of the century and made a celebrity of Perrin. He was steadfast under two days of cross-examination and an unpromising conviction was obtained.

  Judson Piers Perrin was born in Bruton, Somerset, in 1935, the second son of parents who between them ran a small private boarding school. He obtained a scholarship to Wellington College, and in 1954 enrolled in the medical school at St George’s Hospital, London, where he gained valuable laboratory experience as a demonstrator in the pathology department. After qualifying as a doctor, he began to forge a reputation in toxicology, and published several innovative papers on plant poisons including ricin and abrin. He first appeared as an expert witness in a case in 1963.

  In 1969, Dr. Perrin accepted the Chair of Toxicology at Reading University and lectured widely on plant poisons. He was consulted on the use of ricin in the murder in London of the dissident Georgi Markov by Bulgarian secret service agents in 1978. Toxicology as a field of study has increased vastly in complexity as new compounds are developed and more sophisticated methods of detection employed. Perrin relished the challenge, and his 1985 book, An International Directory of Poisonous Plants, is still regarded as indispensable. He received the O.B.E. in 1992. He married twice, in 1962 and 1974. His first wife, Marjorie Pelham, was killed in a motor accident in 1972. He is survived by his second wife, Jane Deacon. He had two sons from the first marriage, one of whom predeceased him.