Death in a Major

by Sarah Fox

  Oh my God. That’s what the killer used to poison Mr. Major.

  As that thought echoed in my head I realized it didn’t tell me much. It wasn’t as if there was a limited class of ­people with access to angel’s trumpet. It probably grew in many gardens around the city. Mrs. Duffy could have obtained some as easily as anyone else on my suspect list.

  Although it was difficult for me to believe that Mrs. Duffy had killed her father, the police obviously had reason to think she at least had some pertinent information, otherwise they wouldn’t have brought her in for questioning. I hoped it wasn’t anything more than that because I didn’t want to believe Jordan had a murderer for a mother. But the fact that she seemed so distraught had me worried.

  Poor Jordan. He had to be devastated about the whole situation, especially now that the police had dragged his mom right into the middle of it.

  Catching sight of Salnikova approaching out of the corner of my eye, I cleared away any evidence of the search on my phone and slipped the device back into the depths of my purse.

  I smiled, hoping she didn’t suspect that I’d snooped into the report. “Is Detective Bachman all right?”

  “He’s on medical leave,” Salnikova replied as she sat down at her desk again. “He’s recovering from some minor surgery, but he’ll be fine.”

  She shifted the report off to one side. Tension I hadn’t previously noticed eased out of my body when she made no sign that she suspected I’d touched it.

  “That’s good to hear,” I said.

  “Now, was there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “No, I really came here for Jordan’s sake. It must be hard for him to know you’re questioning his mom.”

  A shadow of something close to regret passed across Salnikova’s face. “It’s a difficult time for him, of course.”

  “Hopefully he’s hanging in there.” I got up out of my chair. “I’d better get off to work. Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.”

  Detective Salnikova walked me out of the police station and I set off down the street toward the bus stop, my head buzzing. The police seemed to be working hard to solve Mr. Major’s murder, and that was a good thing. It was never nice to think that a killer was roaming free. If they found the killer quickly, I’d no longer have to worry about solving the case to bring Jordan closure.

  Of course, if Jordan’s mother was a murderer rather than a person with pertinent information to share, then Jordan would be more distraught than ever and I wouldn’t know how to help him. Hopefully the investigation wasn’t going in that direction and never would, but as I once again remembered Mrs. Duffy’s distress, I couldn’t help but think that she was indeed a suspect in her father’s murder.

  AS SOON AS I finished teaching my last lesson of the day, I packed up my violin and set off from JT’s house. Aaron was due to arrive for band practice in less than an hour and I didn’t want to linger in case he showed up early. Maybe I should have stayed around instead of putting off our breakup until the next day, but I wasn’t brave enough for that. I told myself it wouldn’t be kind to break up with Aaron right before his band practice. An excuse, yes, but I let myself buy it.

  On my way to the theater, I ducked into a small Japanese restaurant and ordered myself some dinner. I tried not to think about Aaron while I munched my way through a dynamite roll and washed it down with a cup of tea. I also tried not to think about him as I traveled the rest of the way to the theater and during the rehearsal. Although I wasn’t entirely successful, the music was—­as usual—­a helpful distraction, as was Bronwyn’s predicament.

  I noted with a pang of worry that she wasn’t present at the theater. During our break in the middle of the rehearsal, I leaned toward Mikayla and asked, “Have you heard anything from Bronwyn?”

  “She texted me earlier today. She said she was too humiliated and embarrassed to show her face here tonight.”

  I frowned, feeling bad for my absent friend. “But she hasn’t been kicked out of the orchestra yet?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  My eyes settled on Hans where he stood speaking with two clarinet players. As their conversation drew to a close, I got up from my seat and wound my way around chairs and music stands, reaching Hans as the other musicians turned to walk away.

  “Did you talk to Mr. Hollingsworth?” I asked without preamble.

  Hans hesitated, but eventually responded in a lowered voice. “I did.”

  “And?”

  His eyes scanned the stage around us, as if to make sure no one was listening in. “We think we can keep the theft quiet and avoid bad publicity.”

  “But what about Bronwyn? What’s going to happen to her?”

  Hans sighed. “Nothing has been decided for certain yet, but it doesn’t look good for her. We can’t have a thief in our midst.”

  “But she’s not a thief!”

  “Can you prove that?”

  I frowned, not wanting to voice my answer.

  “I admire you for sticking by your friend, Midori,” he said. “But there’s not much I can do for her in the circumstances.” His eyes drifted away from me, his attention shifting. “It’s time to resume the rehearsal.”

  Disappointed, I returned to my seat, wishing I could think of a way to help Bronwyn. But as much as I didn’t want to admit it, I had no idea how to track down the real thief. I recalled that Bronwyn had carried her shoulder bag with her in the reception room when she came to say goodbye. That meant pretty much anyone present at the reception could have slipped the brooch into her bag.

  But why had they done so?

  Maybe someone had a grudge against her and wanted to get her kicked out of the orchestra. I found that hard to believe, knowing how nice Bronwyn was, but if the real thief was spiteful enough, it wasn’t impossible.

  I decided to consider that possibility further when I had a chance. In the meantime, I let myself get caught up in the rehearsal, and by the time it came to an end I had something else on my mind. It was the night of Jordan’s first at-­home lesson and I wanted to leave the theater as soon as possible so I wouldn’t be late. Mrs. Duffy had e-­mailed me the evening before, confirming that she was okay with the plan Jordan and I had come up with. She’d also provided me with the address of Mr. Major’s house in Shaughnessy, where she and Jordan had been living ever since she and her husband had split up.

  Soon after packing up my instrument and leaving the theater, I boarded a bus and headed toward the upscale neighborhood of Shaughnessy. I had to walk two blocks after disembarking from the bus, but streetlamps lit my way and I found the house without difficulty.

  Before heading for the front door, I paused in front of Mr. Major’s residence, taking in the sight of it. As I had expected, the house—­a small mansion, really—­was impressive. White and dark brown, it was built in the Tudor style, and each of its generous two stories had to be at least four times the size of my apartment. Probably more. I didn’t doubt that the property was worth several million dollars.

  I followed a curving driveway lined with low hedges and solar lights and approached the large front entrance. Several seconds after I pressed the bell, Jordan opened the door and stepped back to let me in the house. As we exchanged greetings, my gaze swept over the foyer. It was as impressive as the exterior of the house, if not more so. A crystal chandelier hung from the two-­story-­high ceiling and a grand staircase curved its way up to the second floor. Expensive-­looking paintings hung on the white walls and the heels of my boots clicked against the beautiful hardwood floors.

  Jordan shut and locked the door, but before he had a chance to do anything else, a phone rang somewhere on the second floor.

  “Sorry,” he said as he made a move for the stairway. “That’s probably my aunt calling. I should answer it since my mom’s not here. You can wait in the living room at the end of the hall
. I won’t be long.”

  As he disappeared up the stairs, I made my way along the hall. I paused at an open door on my right and took a quick peek into the room. It appeared to be Mr. Major’s study. A stately wooden desk sat in the middle of the room and thick, leather-­bound tomes lined a large bookcase, probably more for show than for reading, I suspected. The desktop was tidy, as was the entire room. Somehow it didn’t surprise me that Mr. Major hadn’t been the disorganized type.

  Continuing on down the hallway, I found the living room Jordan had mentioned. At one end of the room was a massive stone fireplace, at the other, a wet bar with numerous bottles of alcohol in a cabinet with glass doors. Gorgeous antique furniture was placed here and there throughout the room and every piece of artwork was undoubtedly way out of my financial league.

  I crossed the room to a set of French doors that led out to a large stone patio. Curious to know if the backyard was as luxurious as the house, I opened the doors and stepped outside. Beyond the patio, a neatly trimmed lawn stretched toward a rose garden. To the left was a lap pool, and to the right, a tennis court, both illuminated by bright floodlights. I didn’t think I’d ever been in a backyard so large and I wondered how much anyone actually used it.

  Deciding to head back inside, I turned around and stepped toward the open French doors. I stopped short when I noticed a large potted plant behind a lounge chair.

  I recognized it right away. Its elegant, trumpet-­shaped flowers were unmistakable.

  Angel’s trumpet.

  Mrs. Duffy and anyone else living in the house had easier access to the plant than I’d imagined. I swallowed and tightened my grip on my instrument case. Even though the flowers were pretty, the plant seemed sinister to me. Tearing my eyes away from it, I stepped back inside the house.

  As I pulled the door shut behind me, there was still no sign of Jordan. I considered taking a seat on an antique chesterfield, but the sound of rustling papers drifted toward me from the hallway leading toward the front of the house.

  Wondering if Jordan had already come downstairs or if his mom had arrived home, I set down my violin and followed the sound along the hall.

  “Jordan?” I called out. “Mrs. Duffy?”

  The rustling stopped, replaced by silence that had a strange, heavy quality to it. I paused for a second but then continued on, the high heels of my black boots clicking against the hardwood floors and sounding unusually loud in the quiet house. I approached the open door to Mr. Major’s study.

  When I peered into the room, a flicker of movement drew my eyes to one of the floor-­to-­ceiling windows. A man in a dark suit slipped out the open window, dodged around the bushy plants outside, and fled toward the driveway.

  “Hey!” I yelled.

  The sound of my voice only sent the man running faster. I raced over to the window and stuck my head out into the cool night air, but the man had already disappeared into the darkness.

  He’d made a swift escape, but he hadn’t been fast enough for me to fail to recognize him. I’d caught a glimpse of his profile and that was enough for me to make a positive identification.

  What he’d been doing in Mr. Major’s house, I had no idea. But what I did know for certain was that the intruder had been none other than Dr. Daniel Beaufort, vice chair of the Point Grey Philharmonic’s executive committee.

  Chapter Nine

  “MIDORI?” JORDAN STOOD in the study’s doorway. His forehead creased as his eyes went from the open window to the large wooden desk, now covered in a mess of papers and file folders. “What’s going on?”

  Still stunned by Dr. Beaufort’s presence in the house and his sudden flight, it took me a second to figure out where to start. “Was there supposed to be anyone else in the house?”

  “No. Just us. Marjorie’s gone out for the evening and my mom went to visit a friend after . . . after she took care of some things.”

  I knew those things involved the police. I wasn’t surprised that she’d sought support from a friend after her interview, especially if she didn’t want Jordan to see how upset she was.

  “Why?” Jordan asked. “Was someone here?”

  “Yes. I guess I disturbed him in the middle of . . . whatever he was doing. He took off out the window.” I crossed the room to the large desk. All of its drawers were open and papers were strewn about on the floor as well as on the desk. Definitely different from the last time I’d looked in the room. “Do you know Dr. Daniel Beaufort?”

  “No. Never heard of him.” Jordan came over to join me by the desk. “Is that who was in here?”

  I nodded. “He’s a member of the Point Grey Philharmonic’s board of directors. But what the heck would he be doing breaking in here?”

  Jordan studied the messy surface of the desk. “He must have been looking for something. This desk was super tidy last time I looked in here. It always was. My grandfather liked everything perfect.” He reached out for the nearest file folder.

  I put a hand on his arm to stop him. “Hold on. Best not to touch anything. I’ll call the police and tell them what happened. They’ll probably want to come and take a look.” I glanced around the office, noting a conspicuous absence. “Did your grandfather have a computer?” I didn’t think Dr. Beaufort had been carrying a laptop when he took off, but I couldn’t be completely certain.

  “No,” Jordan replied. “He refused to touch computers. He always wrote everything by hand. If he needed anything done on a computer, he got his secretary to do it at his office downtown.”

  So Beaufort hadn’t made off with a computer. I wished I knew if he’d taken anything else.

  As I retrieved my cell phone from my purse, my eyes roved over the papers scattered across the desk, hoping to find a clue as to what Dr. Beaufort was after. Without moving the pages I could only see small portions of each, and certainly not enough to glean any helpful information. Although I longed to shuffle through the papers for a better look, I knew I needed to follow my own advice and leave everything untouched until the police arrived.

  Beside me, Jordan stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders slumping.

  I put an arm around him. “Why don’t we go sit in the other room while we wait for the police?”

  He allowed me to guide him to the living room at the back of the house. He flopped down onto an antique chesterfield and stared at the unlit fireplace as I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number I’d stored last spring. I paced across the room as I put a call through to Detective Salnikova. Considering the hour, I wasn’t sure if she’d pick up, but she did. After I explained to her about the intruder at Mr. Major’s house, she instructed me to stay out of the study and wait for her arrival. I hung up and joined Jordan on the chesterfield.

  “Detective Salnikova is on her way,” I told him.

  He nodded, but his eyes seemed distant.

  “I’m sorry about everything you’re going through, Jordan. And now with your mom . . .”

  His eyes snapped toward me. “You know about that?”

  “I saw her at the police station when I went to see the detective.”

  “Did you talk to her? Is she okay?” Desperation underscored his questions, and in that moment he seemed younger than his fourteen years. “She phoned me afterward, but she wouldn’t say much.”

  “I only saw her briefly. She was upset but otherwise all right.” I hoped that was the truth.

  “She didn’t do it, you know.” Anger and certainty replaced the desperation in his voice. “There’s no way she killed my grandfather.”

  I wanted to believe him for his sake, but I wasn’t sure if I could. Even though I had trouble picturing his mother as a murderer, for all I knew at that point she might well have killed her father. At the same time, Dr. Beaufort’s stealthy presence in the home complicated matters.

  Instead of agreeing or disagreeing with Jor
dan, I asked him a question. “What do you think the police wanted to ask her?”

  He shrugged and slouched against the back of the chesterfield again. “How should I know? It’s not like they tell me anything.”

  I thought back to what little I’d overheard at the police station.

  Flask.

  Fingerprints.

  Maybe they’d found Mrs. Duffy’s fingerprints on Mr. Major’s flask. And if the poison had been in the flask, then that was a link between Mrs. Duffy and the crime. But was it really? Mrs. Duffy was the victim’s daughter and currently lived in his house. Was it so strange that she might have handled his flask at some point? I didn’t think so, but I didn’t know anything for sure.

  “Jordan, did your grandfather often carry a flask with him?”

  His eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch. “Often? More like always.”

  “Was it common for anyone else to handle it?”

  “Wait. Was that where the poison was? In his flask?”

  “I don’t know for certain, but I think so.”

  Jordan sat up straighter. “My mom didn’t like my grandfather drinking so much. His doctor told him he should stop because of his health, but of course he wouldn’t listen. I know there were a ­couple of times when my mom helped him out of his jacket and found the flask in his pocket. She took it out so he wouldn’t drink in public, but she always paid for it later.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Jordan’s voice hardened and his hands clenched into fists. “He’d yell at her. He’d swear at her and call her names.”

  I tried to distract him from the unpleasant memory. “So there would be a perfectly reasonable explanation for her fingerprints being on the flask.”

  He nodded and his hands slowly unclenched. “Not that the police would care about that. They just want to arrest someone so it looks like they’re doing their job. What do they care if it’s not the right person?”

  I wasn’t sure if that was an entirely fair assessment of the situation, but I wasn’t about to upset him by disagreeing with him.