by Joy Avon
“Just a few more questions. You’ve already helped me so much.” Ace smiled. “When you went to the room where you expected the expert to have retreated, did you see anyone coming from that direction? Someone who might have been in there with him?”
“No.” The answer came fast. “The corridor was empty.”
“Are you sure?” Ace leaned over closer to her. “You saw no one? Not even a shadow? Someone going down the other direction?”
Twisting the handkerchief into a knot, Mrs. Moffett took a deep breath. “I did hear the click of a door closing. So maybe the killer hid in one of the other rooms while I came over.” She swallowed hard. “I’m glad I didn’t run into him. He could have killed me too.”
“Him?” Ace queried. “You think it was a man?”
“Why, yes, the expert was a tall man, not very broad in the shoulders maybe, but wiry. He could have defended himself. I can’t see someone killing him unless it was a man. A strong man.”
Callie looked at Mrs. Moffett closely, suspicion niggling inside. Earlier she had told Callie something about a she who might have killed. Now she insisted it had to have been a man. Why?
Ace played with his pen. “I don’t know how the murder was committed, so I have to keep all options open. Supposing it could also have been a woman … Did you see or notice anything? Maybe the scent of perfume in the room when you walked in? Scents can be pretty pervasive.”
“Or perhaps I saw a brooch that had fallen to the floor?” Mrs. Moffett laughed nervously. “No, no such thing. I can’t remember the scent of the room. I just saw a dead man, and I panicked and ran. I really want to go home now.”
Her voice trembled, and Ace closed his notebook and got up. “Of course, Mrs. Moffett. I think Iphy can take you and make sure you’re all right.”
Iphy nodded at him gratefully and led the woman to the door.
As soon as the two were gone, Ace looked at Callie. “What do you think?” Before she could answer, he said, “I let you and Iphy be there because she was upset, and if you had left, she might have clammed up, but I don’t intend to involve you in this case in any way. Twice was enough, you know.”
Callie nodded. “Of course. I think she was really very upset. It’s hard to tell if she was just incoherent because of her mood or if she was …”
“Lying?” Ace pointed his pen at her. “I had the distinct impression she did see someone before she entered the room. But she can’t believe that person to be involved in something as gruesome as murder, and therefore she’s denying it. But that could be dangerous. People who killed once usually don’t hesitate to kill again if they believe a witness can identify them.”
Callie wanted to say something about that but was interrupted by a knock on the door. A man dressed in white poked his head around the door and said, “We have fingerprints on the murder weapon. A perfect set.”
“What’s the murder weapon?” Ace asked, his pen poised to write it down in his notebook.
“A pair of scissors.”
Callie gasped. Ace glanced at her and then waved away the man in white. “I’ll be there in a minute.” He focused on Callie and said, “What is it? The mention of scissors seems to have spooked you.”
Callie shrugged. “Earlier this afternoon I saw Mrs. Forrester walking around with a pair of scissors in her hand, clutching it like it was a weapon. She seemed deeply upset about something.”
Ace nodded. “If she was holding the scissors, that explains her prints on them.” He waited a moment. “Still, it puts her in an awkward position. She asked this expert to come here, so she knew him on some level. I mean, it is more likely that she would get into conflict with him than a perfect stranger here at the event.”
Callie nodded. “That seems logical, yes. I’m worried …” She fell silent and looked for the right words.
Ace waited patiently, his dark eyes scanning her expression.
“Yes?” he prompted.
“I really don’t know for sure and shouldn’t—”
“Tell me. Your gut feeling has been right before.”
“It’s not a gut feeling even. When Mrs. Moffett approached me and reported the murder, she seemed to think Mrs. Forrester had committed it. She referred to someone who was fierce and insistent but need not be capable of killing. She must also have seen Mrs. Forrester rushing around with the scissors.”
Ace nodded. “If she caught a glimpse of them in the victim, she could have drawn a quick conclusion.”
Callie studied his features. “And what conclusion are you drawing?”
“That I need to speak to Mrs. Forrester.”
Ace walked to the door. He hesitated with his hand on the knob. “I do realize one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I asked Mrs. Moffett why she reported the murder to you and not to her boss, Mrs. Forrester. She said it was because you’re one of the organizers, and of course that might make total sense. Besides, it would be normal not to act perfectly logically, as she was startled and running away from a dead body she had stumbled on. But still, can’t we also guess that the reason she didn’t want to tell Mrs. Forrester about the dead body was that she suspected her of being the killer and couldn’t see herself reporting a murder to the actual murderer?”
A chill went down Callie’s spine at the idea.
Ace held her gaze as he continued. “Mrs. Moffett might have been afraid that if she faced Mrs. Forrester, the woman would sense her suspicions, and that would not exactly be smart. Or safe.”
Callie licked her lips. “You have to speak to Mrs. Forrester and clear this up. I mean, we can’t have …” She reached up and rubbed her forehead.
Ace came over and smiled at her, a sad smile. “It’s happened again, Callie. And this time you’re not going to be helping me. It wouldn’t be right. We’re …” He waited and seemed to look for the right word. “Well, you know.”
And he vanished out of the door.
Callie stared at the closed door, wishing he had ended his sentence and put a word to what they actually were. Just dating, feeling out the possibilities of a relationship? Or were they in a relationship? To her it was definitely the latter, but Ace always seemed a bit more reserved. Was it just because he was so insanely busy after the sheriff’s concussion, so personal stuff was the last thing on his mind? Or was something else holding him back?
Callie shook her head with a rueful smile. Whatever Ace was thinking, the murder had thoroughly ruined their chances for a romantic Valentine’s Day.
Chapter Five
Callie was packing the last of their tea supplies into boxes when Ace came into the drawing room. He walked upright as always, but Callie could tell by the tightness in his shoulders that he was feeling the pressure of having to organize everything, speak to people, take initial statements, and make decisions about what to do next. He halted and looked at her with a frown, obviously trying to determine something. Then he asked, “Where’s Peggy? She was here working with you to serve tea and cookies all afternoon, right?”
Callie nodded. “She was here before.”
She wasn’t sure she should tell Ace about the state in which Peggy had left the premises, so she decided not to underline the point unless Ace specifically asked about it.
Ace stood and looked about him as if he expected to find Peggy. “I haven’t seen her anywhere. Are you sure she’s all right? The boys are in the stables with Quinn, but they don’t seem to know where she is either.” Worry furrowed between his eyes. “I called her cell phone, but she’s not answering.”
Callie’s stomach squeezed. She should have gone after Peggy or at least tried to ensure in some way that she was all right. She checked her watch. It had been hours since Peggy left.
Ace asked, “Do you have any idea where she might be?”
“No.” Callie came to a decision. It was better if she talked to Peggy before Ace did, and Quinn got into trouble. “I’ll go to her house and see if she’s there. If it’s okay for me to
leave.”
“Yes, I don’t think you killed Mr. King.” Ace’s tired expression relaxed a moment. Then he asked, “Why would Peggy have gone home? Without telling anyone? Was she feeling unwell? And why wouldn’t she answer her phone?”
“Just let me go over to her house, and I’ll call you with news as soon as I can.”
Callie wanted to walk past him to the door, but Ace grabbed her arm. “Do you know something? Is she sick? Has she been keeping that from me?”
Callie shook her head, but Ace pressed her wrist harder and said, “Don’t keep things from me, Callie, please. I know if Peggy asked you to keep something a secret, you’ll feel loyal to her and all that, but she’s my sister. I love her, and I would do anything for her.”
Even turn against me, Callie mused, and then rebuked herself for this irrational, unkind thought. Ace was handling a murder investigation here and was suddenly confronted with his missing sister and a suspicion of why she had left without saying something to anyone. That would of course prompt questions.
“I don’t know anything about her being ill. If I did, I would have told you. I’ll just go to her house and let you know right away what’s up. Promise.”
Ace let go of her and sighed. “Sorry, Callie, I just … Another murder, in our town. People being upset and afraid and asking me what’s happening, and the sheriff still being incapable of doing much. That stupid accident on New Year’s Eve. I still can’t figure out how you can hit your head on a beam in your own attic and get a concussion that keeps you out of work for weeks.”
“Injuries to the head and neck are always tricky,” Callie said. “People involved in rear-end collisions can sometimes suffer symptoms for months without doctors being able to find any clear sign of damage.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Ace made a dismissive gesture with both hands. “I’ve heard that from several people. Fact is, though, I’m left to fend for myself, and there were hundreds of people present on the grounds when this murder took place. Some job.” He nodded at her. “You let me know about Peggy, huh?”
“As soon as I can. Scout’s honor.” Callie slipped out the door and felt in her pocket for her car key. She hoped with all her heart Peggy would be at home and was simply not answering her phone because she was upset and didn’t want to talk to anyone.
But after a couple of hours, how upset could she still be?
With worry clawing at her stomach, Callie got into her car and drove away from Haywood Hall. Looking back at the majestic mansion in her rearview mirror, she noticed the smoke she had seen on arrival was still cheerfully wafting from the chimneys. But now something had been added to the cozy sight—an incongruous element: police cars in front of the house. Even without their lights flashing, it made the place look like the scene of an accident.
But murder was no accident, Callie realized. It was deliberate. Mrs. Forrester? Irritated already, on edge because of the pressure of this big event she felt personally responsible for, confronted with the expert she had engaged who didn’t treat her with respect but looked down on her—had he perhaps shouted at her like he had at his unfortunate assistant? A weapon at hand, a stab in red-hot anger, then panic. “What have I done?”
Callie swallowed as images of how it might have played out filled her head, and she clutched the wheel. She just hoped Ace would figure out how to handle this without jumping to hasty conclusions and—even worse—making impromptu arrests that could damage someone’s good name and reputation forever. Callie wanted no part in this.
She would just make sure Peggy was okay and then … what? Forget about all of it?
She realized with a heavy feeling inside that it wouldn’t be that easy, as Haywood Hall was part of her life here, her work, her everyday existence. She and Iphy had taken on the immense responsibility of preserving the house for future generations, at Dorothea Finster’s explicit request.
Dorothea! Callie realized that she hadn’t even had a chance to talk to the elderly lady and comfort her after the shock of another murder in her home. Again Mrs. Keats—the faithful housekeeper, Iphy, and the Book Tea crew were all involved, if only by being near the scene as it happened. Thinking back to the first murder she had helped solve, she recalled vividly how hard it had been just because so many people she cared for had been under scrutiny and turning to her for help to clear their names.
The domineering Mrs. Forrester was no particular friend of hers, so she need not feel that same anxiety in this case, but she did realize that if the woman was innocent, her position was very precarious, and she had to be terribly afraid.
Callie turned into the road Peggy lived on and looked at the numbers. It was dusk already, and she almost turned into the wrong driveway. But then she saw Peggy’s car. Did that mean she was at home? That would make it easy to check up on her and inform Ace that everything was all right.
With some relief, Callie parked her vehicle behind Peggy’s car and got out, closing the door softly. She walked up to the house but didn’t knock on the front door with the fishnets beside it and the little wooden boat that read on the bow “Greg Peggy Jimmy Tate,” a bittersweet memory of Peggy’s intact family before her husband’s death.
She walked around back to where the kitchen was and looked in through the kitchen window.
For a moment Callie thought Peggy wasn’t there, and she’d have to return to the front of the house anyway to ring the bell, but then she caught sight of her friend sitting at the kitchen table, her head supported in both of her hands. Callie felt relief rush through her that Peggy was there, and pulled out her cell phone. She quickly texted to Ace: Peggy at home. Am going in to talk to her. Everything okay.
As she typed the latter, her heart clenched because she wasn’t sure at all that everything was okay, but Ace had wanted to know where his sister was, and at least Callie had located her and could tell him she was safe in her own home. She’d have to find out more first before she could decide what to tell Ace about it.
Her heart sank, thinking she might have to keep something from him. He had asked her not to, pleading with her even, but what if Peggy shared something with her that was confidential, and …
This was going to be very complicated.
Callie took a deep breath and then knocked on the window. Peggy jerked upright. She seemed reluctant to even turn her head and see who was there. Her tight posture suggested she was contemplating getting up and running off again into a part of the house where she wouldn’t be observed. But then she slowly turned around. Her face was pale, her eyes red from crying. She seemed relieved, though, that it was Callie looking in, and came to the back door at once.
Callie had expected Peggy to invite her in straight away, and was already mentally making tea for her distraught friend, but Peggy opened the door only an inch or two and said in a hoarse voice, “I feel terrible—just leave me alone.”
“Why do you feel terrible? Is there anything I can do for you? Maybe make a cup of tea?”
Peggy seemed to want to say no and bang the door shut, but after a few moments’ consideration, she sighed and opened the door wider. “Why not? I can’t face the boys this way. They aren’t with you, are they?” She peered into the garden worriedly.
“No, they’re still at the Hall. Quinn is looking after them.” Callie realized Peggy had no idea that a murder had happened there, but it didn’t seem like a good idea to tell her now, and since the boys were taken care of, it couldn’t hurt to tell her later.
Peggy didn’t seem pleased, though, to hear that Quinn was with her children. She hesitated and said, “Maybe you should go get them.”
“They’ll be fine there a little longer. A cup of tea first, okay? I’d like some too.” Callie stepped forward, and Peggy backed up to let her in, then walked into the kitchen ahead of her and sat at the table again.
Callie picked up the kettle and filled it with water from the tap. She glanced at Peggy and saw she was looking at a book she had open on the table in front of her. Not just a book,
but a photo album. Her finger traced a picture as she sat there, small and lost.
Callie put the kettle on and then walked over to her. She came to stand beside her and looked down at the photo album. The picture Peggy was caressing with her fingertip was a photo of a radiant bride, a smiling groom beside her. They looked devastatingly young and eager for life, holding onto each other tightly.
Callie’s throat constricted as she recognized Peggy’s features in the bride’s face and realized the groom had to be Greg, Peggy’s deceased husband. She was sitting here looking at the happiness she had once had and lost. Callie put her hand on Peggy’s shoulder and said, “I’m here for you if you want to talk about it.”
Peggy didn’t say anything. She just kept stroking the image of her dead husband.
Callie had no idea how grief like that felt. She had never lost anyone that close to her. She still had both her parents, and she had never had a partner, let alone a husband. Thinking of Ace, she tried to imagine what it would be like to be married to him, have children with him, and then lose him, perhaps as he got shot in the line of duty. The news, the numbness, the shock, the loss, the loneliness. The struggle to get back on her feet, for the children’s sake.
Even though thinking of Ace getting shot hurt like crazy, Callie was well aware that she couldn’t imagine at all what it would be like to lose someone you had been living with for years and had built your entire existence around. It seemed surreal.
Peggy said in a hoarse voice, “I can’t do it, Callie. I can’t.”
Callie squeezed her shoulder. She struggled with her need to say something comforting, but didn’t know what, as she had no idea what Peggy was going through. She didn’t want to say something superficial, shallow, or unfeeling.
Or, worst of all, clichéd.
She just stood there and listened to Peggy’s breathing in the silence. Then the kettle began to sing, and she rushed to collect a teapot and mugs, tea bags, and cookies. At last she put down the teapot with brewing tea and a mug by Peggy’s side and sat down opposite her. Still she hadn’t said a word.