by Claire Logan
“Excellent! Please tell him we accept. Oh, and send up luncheon, if you will.”
“Anything particular?”
“Whatever’s good.”
The busboy shrugged. “Hard to say, sir, now Cook’s gone. They got a new lady in charge. I don’t think she’s nearly as good, but I’ll do my best.”
“Good man.” Mr. Jackson gave him a tip and sent him on his way.
His wife fell asleep briefly, but woke when the food arrived a half hour later. The busboy was right: the food was merely adequate.
“I fear this hotel’s reputation will suffer if they don’t replace their cook with someone of equal caliber,” Mr. Jackson said.
Mrs. Jackson snorted. “I wouldn’t come back if they paid me, after having my name plastered so rudely in the papers.”
“I hope for the Hotel’s sake Miss Goldie Jean Dab has a more forgiving nature. Once we clear her name, that is.”
“We must, if we’re to stay here.” She put down her fork. “I don’t know if I want to stay somewhere with a poisoner in it for very long.”
Mr. Jackson shook his head. “This feels too personal. I don’t think we’re in any danger. If it makes you feel better, I’ll taste every dish before you eat it!”
She laughed at that. Then her face sobered. “I must sound like some anxious old woman.”
“Surely not. You’ve had a difficult time.” When he glanced next at her, her eyes were red. He spoke gently, wondering what had upset her so. “But you’re correct: we must find this killer, or we can’t stay here for long.” At that, he recalled George’s reaction at the hospital, the way he'd suffered, and he leaned across the table to take her hand. “You wish to clear the cook’s name, and to find whoever killed that young woman. I very much wish to stay here, and find that poisoner for my own reasons. Shall we put aside our doubts and suspicions of the past and work together?”
14
His wife’s eyes filled with tears, and she squeezed his hand tightly. “I’m sorry for how I’ve doubted you, so wrongly, over the years.”
A pang of remorse. “Much of the fault was mine.” He leaned over to kiss her hand. “I’m truly sorry for my part in it.”
She rested her forehead on their hands, still joined. “How I wish I would have just spoken with you.
So much hurt could have been avoided.”
He smiled at her black curls, kissed them. “Don’t berate yourself for the past. It’s gone now.”
She raised her head, dampness on her cheeks. “To answer your question: I can only promise to try.”
Feeling a new energy, Mr. Jackson sat back. “There we have it!” He chuckled at the irony of the situation. “Now all we need to do is form some idea of how we might solve this.”
“The killer is among us,” Mrs. Jackson said, face pensive. “Right here, still, in the hotel. She holds such anger!”
“Yes,” Mr. Jackson said, “and about something which likely happened long ago.” He considered this. “Could the poisoner wish to frame the cook for some past slight?”
His wife shook her head. “For what, I have no idea.” She let out a short laugh. “From your theory, we must know why first. But I disagree. We may never know why this woman does this, if it is indeed a woman at all. Knowing the facts of the matter will bring you to the answer.”
He found this amusing. “Very well, Madam Investigator. What are the facts?”
His wife peered at him sideways. Then she chuckled. “I did sound rather imperious there.” She began to tick off points on the fingers of her left hand. “There appear to be two kinds of death here.
First is the young man, whose cause of death is still unknown. The second is two poisonings by strychnine.” She paused, frowning. “Two murderers?”
“If the first was indeed murder.”
“Yes,” she said. “We still don’t know if the deaths were related.” She rubbed her left temple.
“There’s so much we don’t yet know.”
“There are still areas of the hotel yet unexplored, people yet to speak with.” He considered this.
“Every evening after tea, men gather in the barbershop downstairs. Perhaps one of them has seen something which may help.”
Mrs. Jackson nodded. “The second point: so far as we know, all the poisonings have targeted the staff.”
“And whoever should have gotten the lemon-cake with the bubble. Remember what George said?
The cook noticed the bubble and switched the cakes.”
His wife’s eyes went wide. “I’d forgotten! Was there anyone of note in the list of room service calls that night?”
A shock ran through him. “The owner,” Mr. Jackson said. “He was here last night, in his room. Remember? We were supposed to meet with him after dinner.”
Mrs. Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “You suspected earlier that these poisonings were meant to discredit the hotel. What if this person actually targets the owner?”
“You mean that —”
“When the deaths didn’t get the attention the poisoner wished, they decided to poison the owner directly.”
Mr. Jackson leaned back. “Surely she didn’t believe a few days’ scandal would be sufficient to ruin a hotel of such magnificence? If so, this woman has clearly not thought the matter through.”
His wife nodded. “A third point, then: the woman in question holds a quick and impulsive nature.”
“But to plan this out, then change her tactics so suddenly?”
“Perhaps the poisoner doubted herself.” She paused, her eyes far away. “It’s easy to plan someone’s death. The reality is often very different.”
Mr. Jackson shuddered, remembering a scene of his own in which this was true. The memory left him feeling vaguely ill. “The swarm of police may have shaken the poisoner’s resolve as well.”
“Yes. To come so close to success ... then to see the police?” She shook her head. “It would take a will of steel to stand firm when your ultimate goal is endangered. It seems our killer is not such a person.”
Mr. Jackson considered this for a moment and came up with exactly nothing. “I still have no idea what to do to find this woman. We need more information.”
***
Mrs. Jackson put her sling on. “I shall go mad cooped up here much longer.” The luncheon dishes lay upon their table waiting for the maids to return.
“Let’s go for a stroll,” Mr. Jackson said. Then he chuckled. “We shall have no madness here!”
She thought this quite amusing.
They left with the door sign turned to “Please clean room now” and descended to the lobby. As always, people bustled about in groups, gazed at the fine chandelier and the lovely fountain, chatted with friends.
The couple strolled through the vast lobby towards the front doors.
A middle-aged uniformed man at the valet stand turned his head towards them, frowning as he gazed downward.
A doorman opened the way for them, then also glanced down, moving his foot out. “Keep out, you!”
Mrs. Jackson looked down as well. A pair of liquid brown eyes encased in a mat of charcoal fur gazed hopefully up at her, its tail wagging a similar mat like a small flag. “What’s this?”
“Just a stray, ma’am,” the doorman said. “Been hanging about the past day or two.”
Mrs. Jackson moved out of the doorway and knelt before the dog, whose feet and tail never stopped moving in its excitement. “Look how sweet its nature. This is someone’s pet.”
The little dog hadn’t stopped bounding up and down, licking her hands, her face. She felt a collar under the thick mat. Twigs and leaves lay buried in the dog’s fur.
People continued to pass in and out of the front doors, casting curious glances at her and the dog as they went.
Mr. Jackson knelt beside them. “They have a groomer here. Perhaps we —”
The man at the valet booth came over, frowning, and said to the doorman, “Is there a problem?”
To Mrs. Ja
ckson’s surprise, Mr. Jackson picked up the dog and rose. “Not at all.” He grinned at her.
“Let’s see what’s under all this nonsense, shall we?”
The groomer looked just as surprised when they brought the dog to him. “Looks like a sausage with legs!”
But after some dog food, a bowl of water, and an hour of clipping and coaxing, a rather thin toy poodle emerged. There was a ragged collar, sure enough, but any name-tag was long gone. Her skin was raw in spots, and the groomer gave them a salve to use for the next few days.
Mrs. Jackson looked into the little dog’s eyes. “Where are your people?” She turned to Mr. Jackson and the groomer, “Someone is missing her dearly. How would we find her owner?”
The groomer shrugged. “She must have been on her own for a while, for all this to have grown and matted so. Maybe as long as a month.”
Mr. Jackson said, “Do you have leashes for sale?”
“Why, yes,” the groomer said. “There’s a display case on the way in.”
Moving out to the front area, they selected a fine black leather leash and a collar to match. Mr.
Jackson said, “Would you bill our room?”
“Certainly, sir.” The groomer handed over a slip of paper, which Mr. Jackson signed. “And if you need someone to walk her, just return here, or call down. My sons are available day and night, and we book appointments by the hour.”
“Excellent!” Mr. Jackson put the dog down and handed her the leash. “Now, let’s see where this little one takes us.”
Freed from the constraints of matted fur, the little dog bounded back and forth, yet once out of the lobby, went right, then kept moving in a direct line.
“Go home,” Mrs. Jackson said firmly. “Take us to your people.”
The dog began to pull on her leash with a purpose, and the couple followed several blocks before the dog pulled them to the right, across the busy street and down a tree-lined row of houses. A uniformed policeman stood outside one house, and the dog rushed up the steps towards him.
“Whoa,” the policeman said to the trio. “You can’t come in here. This is a crime scene.”
Just then, Sergeant Nestor emerged, and which of them were the most surprised would be difficult to say.
The sergeant said, “Why are you here?”
Mrs. Jackson felt amused. “The dog brought us.”
The sergeant’s mouth dropped open, then he followed Mrs. Jackson’s pointing hand to the dog and focused upon it for a good second. He put his hand to his forehead. “How did you find it?”
So they told the story of how the dog — more or less — found them. “We asked it to go home,” Mr.
Jackson said, “and here we are, it seems.”
The dog surged towards the open doorway. Mrs. Jackson, feeling compassion for the poor thing, picked it up. “Hush, there, little one.” She felt sure the story the sergeant had to tell was an unhappy one. “We’re here now.”
Whether the dog understood Mrs. Jackson’s words or not, it settled and became quiet.
The sergeant escorted them to the street. “The old lady was found dead inside. A few weeks is my guess. We saw the empty bowls yet no one knew where the dog went.”
Mrs. Jackson felt shocked. “And the woman was just found now?”
“Last night,” Sergeant Nestor said, wrinkling his nose. Then he focused on the dog. “You found it like this?”
Mr. Jackson said, “The poor thing was hungry, encased in a mat of fur.” He shook his head in distaste. “Had been nosing about the front of the hotel a day or two, perhaps looking for food, I don’t know.”
“The poor dear.” Feeling a surge of compassion, Mrs. Jackson kissed the little dog’s forehead. “So now what?”
The sergeant shrugged. “If you don’t want the dog, we can —”
“I want it,” Mrs. Jackson said. She glanced over at Mr. Jackson, who had a bemused smile on his lips. But he nodded, so she said, “We want it.”
The sergeant chuckled. “I thought you might. Very well. If we need to ask anything —”
“You know where to find us,” Mr. Jackson said. He tipped his fedora. “Good day, sergeant.”
They returned to the hotel. Standing out on the sidewalk, Mrs. Jackson took the dog in her hands, peering into its eyes. “This is home now.” At that, she felt amused. “At least for now.” She set the dog down; it went to the gutter to relieve itself.
Mrs. Jackson felt impressed. “You have good manners, at any rate.”
Mr. Jackson stood watching. “What shall we call her?”
This brought back a fond memory: a small child on a large farm with a black cow. “Let’s call her Bessie.”
As she knew he would, Mr. Jackson laughed. “Bessie it is then!”
“Come on, Bessie,” Mrs. Jackson said, and the little dog barked. “Let’s show you your new home.”
15
Bessie had great interest in sniffing every corner of the elevator, the hall, and most especially, their rooms.
“I hope the servants won’t be too put out with her here,” Mrs. Jackson said.
Mr. Jackson shrugged. “It’s none of their affair. We’ll keep her in the bathroom overnight, though, until we learn each others’ ways.”
Mrs. Jackson thought that a good plan. “We’ll need food and water bowls. And a little bed.”
Mr. Jackson chuckled. “I never knew you fancied animals so.”
She’d never considered the matter before. “I suppose I do. I’ve always had animals of one kind or another.” Looking at Bessie, she patted her knee. Bessie leapt onto her lap to snuggle there. For an instant, she was reminded of her little son, gone forever, and grief washed over her. “How cruel the world can be!”
“Yes,” Mr. Jackson said, “but think of what might have happened had we come down a few moments later, and not been there to take her in.”
At that, Mrs. Jackson hugged the little dog, grateful. Bessie was no replacement for the husband and son she’d lost forever, but with a dog’s pure love, she was there.
***
The couple took tea in their rooms, just to let Bessie get used to them and her new surroundings.
They had some discussion about whether to bring Bessie with them to Mr. Carlo’s home for dinner.
Since Bessie had not been invited, they decided to leave her with the groomer’s sons. The boys —
ranging from ten to sixteen — instantly took to the little dog, with much fun being had on all sides.
The car which picked Mr and Mrs. Jackson up from the hotel was a marvel: expensive, with fine leather seats and gleaming brass fixtures. The driver, a middle-aged man with an impressive mustache, wore a black uniform with brass buttons, much as the door-men did.
Mrs. Jackson felt excited to finally meet the owner, yet had some trepidation. Why would this important man wish to meet them? She leaned over to speak in Mr. Jackson’s ear. “What can you tell me about this man?”
Mr. Jackson shrugged. “Our meeting was quite brief. Perhaps I ought not cloud your perceptions with my own as yet.”
Mrs. Jackson sighed, then nodded. She really wished to have some secure knowledge of what they walked into, yet his idea had merit. She settled in to view the scenery.
It appeared that Mr. Carlo lived in the countryside. The buildings and shops grew shorter, farther apart, and homes appeared. Trees lined the streets, and the lights came on. Finally, the car passed beside a tall fence of wrought iron to the right, and a grand mansion came into view, lit from above and below.
They turned right. Men stood guard beside large gates, which opened, and the car drove down the fifty-yard drive past wide fields. Sheep grazed in the half-darkness.
White columns framed a wide overhang. The auto entered a circle and drove round to stop at the front door, which was painted red. Men opened the doors for the couple, then escorted them up the steps and inside.
The owner, a stern-appearing man of middle age, came forward to greet them. A brown-
haired woman — perhaps half his age — came up beside them.
Mrs. Jackson expected this to be his daughter, yet she was introduced as his wife Maisy.
“A pleasure to meet you both,” Mr. Jackson said.
The brown-haired woman who’d sat next to Mrs. Jackson at breakfast at the hotel that first time was also there: Mr. Carlo’s daughter Margaret. All around came the refrain: “What a surprise to see you!”
The dinner was excellent: a salad with walnuts and apples, roasted pheasant, creamed potatoes with rosemary, with a sweet rice pudding and biscotti.
After dinner, the group moved to the parlor. Mr. Carlo and his family drank as if it were not forbidden to them by law, which amused Mrs. Jackson no end. Finally, the younger couple took their leave for bed. “We have an early start tomorrow.”
Mr. and Mrs. Jackson also rose.
“Oh, don’t leave on our account,” Margaret said. “Visit with my parents as long as you like.”
“Please stay,” said Maisy, and her husband agreed, so they did.
Mrs. Jackson still wasn’t sure why they’d been invited.
Maisy Carlo smiled warmly. “We’ve so wanted to meet you, but especially after you rescued George.”
Mrs. Jackson felt perplexed.
“The waiter you saved from the poison,” Mr. Carlo said. “My wife’s cousin.”
“Ah,” Mr. Jackson said. “A fine young man.”
“He is,” Mr. Carlo said. “I admire his desire to make his own way, rather than live idly on his family’s money.” The man nodded. “Good spirit, that.”
“Thank you so much for visiting him,” Maisy said. “We all appreciate your kindness.” She seemed sweet and gentle enough, but a glint of steel lay in her eyes. “Truly we mean to have this poisoner pay for her outrage.”
“This is something I meant to speak about, if it wouldn’t offend,” Mr. Jackson said.
Mr. Carlo leaned back, and became very still, his gaze hooded. “The sergeant told me of your assessment.”
Maisy looked back and forth between them. “What?”