“Preliminary tox results show he was killed by a regular cornucopia of Christmas poison,” Ginger whispered. Although why she kept her voice down was a mystery to me. We were the only two in the Winslow’s library, but voices echoed in the hall. I knew our privacy wouldn’t last long.
“Isn’t the cornucopia a symbol of Thanksgiving?” My friend refrained from commenting verbally, but her headshake told me not to mess with her.
“Okay, call it a potpourri, but whoever murdered the man either had a strange sense of humor, or was an opportunist. According to the story I heard, the mix that killed him included toxins found in amaryllis, holly, and mistletoe.”
“What. No poinsettia?”
“Poinsettias have gotten a bad rap. They aren’t really poisonous, unless a little kid has no taste buds and eats too many leaves.”
I cringed at the mental picture her words created. “Poison? Isn’t that traditionally a woman’s weapon?”
She shrugged. “Could be. Or a man with horticultural expertise.”
I remembered the first death we were involved in, the yoga instructor who’d been poisoned. “But he didn’t upchuck, right? Isn’t that a sign of poison?”
“You’ve always sucked at science.”
I shrugged. She patted my hand.
“Plus, I researched holiday plants for a science project in school. These plants produce different toxins, but each or any of them can affect the heart, either by causing arrhythmia or blood pressure changes.”
I may not enjoy science, but I understood the implications. Whoever killed our erstwhile Charles Dickens knew he had a serious heart condition. Which clearly eliminated only one group of people. Any person who lived outside Granville Falls and who’d never met Shorter.
“But he was walking around town. How quickly does this stuff work?” I rubbed my wet palms on my costume’s apron. “He couldn’t have gotten the dose here, could he? You know, because he collapsed outside.”
The look on Ginger’s face made me wish I could retract my last words. “No, wait, I remember he looked pale when he walked in. He must have been a dead man walking.” I winced at my words. “I mean, like that old movie where the guy was poisoned with no antidote and no one knew why.”
Ginger’s face fell. “I’m not sure he ate or drank anything here, but he was alone with Mom in the kitchen.”
“Oh, um, sorry.” I could’ve kicked myself, but my legs were pinned under layers of costume.
Her forehead crinkled. I knew she was working out her thoughts and remained quiet. Then, her face brightened.
“The murderer could be someone from somewhere else, right? Like that guy Mona saw at the antique store. It doesn’t have to be anyone we know.”
Then, as if floodgates had opened, a large group of noisy senior citizens headed our way, moving faster than I’d have imagined. The library filled, and we had our hands full, keeping the cane- and walker-wielding white-haired men and women away from the antique ornaments. Listening to them reminiscence over the glass balls provided a bit of entertainment, but I was happy to see them move on.
I was relieved I hadn’t had to answer Ginger’s last comment. Even if a gangster would be more likely to use anything other than poison as a weapon. No. Shorter had been killed by someone with a score to settle.
We completed our library posting and moved to keeping a keen eye on the tourists in the living room. The prior night’s events resulted in more costumed tour guides assigned to the Winslow House, partly to keep people from the kitchen and back stairs. We worked in teams rather than singly as we had the night before. That made me happy, because I could keep an eye on a tired-looking Ginger.
I sighed when I saw the line of people waiting to come in the house. Even though the dead man was assumed to have expired from natural causes, Dirk had been right. Looky-loos from all over the area were out in force. The good news was that the Friendly Santa fund for helping needy families would receive a record contribution this year. Maybe I shouldn’t have smiled when I realized Shorter’s death did some good, after all.
After the tour hours ended, Ginger and I and sat with our shoes off and feet up in the library. Although I don’t read much besides magazines and work-related reports, that room has a special ambiance. The decorated tree just added to the atmosphere.
I’m not much for prissy stuff; Victorian curlicues seem overdone. But I couldn’t help admiring Patricia’s tree. My gaze moved over the blown-glass ornaments combined with lacy paper decorations, glass beads and small candles that adorned the branches. I kept my distance though. Ginger had told me how much some of this stuff was worth.
Ginger’s eyes held a glazed look.
“You okay?”
She nodded but remained silent. Not good.
“So, you want to tell me what’s wrong?”
She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Dirk didn’t tell you?”
My stomach muscles knotted. Uh oh. Somehow I kept my voice steady. “Tell me what? I haven’t seen him since this morning.”
Ginger turned her head toward me. The rest of her body remained still. Too still.
“Remember when I relieved you at the front door post last night?”
I felt my forehead wrinkle. “Yeah?”
“Well, I was so ticked, I walked on the porch for a few minutes. To cool down.”
Now my stomach wasn’t my only anatomical part showing nerves. “You left the door unattended?”
“There was a lull. Plus I could see anyone approach.”
“And?”
Her lips twitched, but not in a smile. “I was outside during the time period Shorter died.”
I felt a burst of relief. “Yeah, but he was poisoned. From what I understood, he’d ingested the stuff long before he arrived here.”
Ginger closed her eyes. She rubbed her temples. Then she looked straight at me. “True, but either the poisoner or someone else hit Shorter. They found a blow to the back of his head. “
I edged to the end of my cushion, emotions warring. Dirk hadn’t said anything about this to me. Well, hell. I shouldn’t be surprised. Not that we’d spoken since he’d left me horny and unfulfilled this morning.
“Are you saying Dirk thinks you killed Shorter?”
She shook her head. “No. Whoever hit him was too late. He’d died.” She blinked, her big eyes filling with tears. “But I could be a suspect for attempted murder. Because I was alone outside. No alibi.”
“No way. Dirk and Matt know better. Besides, if Shorter had already died, wouldn’t that be mutilating a corpse or something besides attempted murder?” Now I closed my eyes but my stupid words remained front and center. I moved and sat beside her. “Sorry, Ginger. Just cut out my tongue, will you?”
“I’m not worried about myself. It’s my mom.”
I bit my tongue before I said anything even dumber than I already had. I knew where her words were headed.
“Dirk and Matt heard about Mom’s fight with Shorter.”
“Madeline Rose.”
Ginger shrugged. “We’re going to give additional statements tomorrow morning. We should be back before the afternoon tours begin.”
Couldn’t miss her stress on the word “should.” I brushed a tear from her cheek with my finger, but my touch unleashed a torrent. I handed her a box of tissues.
She nodded her thanks. I patted her shoulder. I’m totally useless with emotional scenes, but Ginger knows and accepts my lack. She’s told me that my sitting with her is proof I care. I’m hoping someday I can do more than watch, feeling useless with a lump in my throat.
“Only an idiot would think you or your mom could kill anyone. Dirk and Matt aren’t stupid. They’ll find the killer.”
She sniffled and nodded. “You’re right.”
We sat quietly, our attention on the tree. At least our gazes were directed there. I know my thoughts raced, and Ginger’s probably kept mine company.
Ginger’s father had been a successful attorney before his
untimely death several years ago. He had befriended a young lawyer, Tom Jenkins, who was now one of the best criminal attorneys in the nation. I didn’t worry that Ginger and her mom wouldn’t be adequately represented. No, my concerns were that they’d need a lawyer in the first place.
It ticked me off that Little Dick had died on the Winslow steps instead of somewhere else. Though a small, unwanted voice told me that wouldn’t have prevented suspicion from falling on everyone who’d crossed Shorter’s path. Including my friends.
Ginger faced me. “Will you stay here tonight? We could sit up late, watch movies, and eat popcorn.”
“Only if Patricia joins us.” I rubbed my chin. “Remember when she’d take away our superhero flashlights if we stayed up too late?”
She nodded. “We were only up after midnight because you wouldn’t stop talking. If you’d ever learned how to whisper, we wouldn’t have been caught. Every time.”
I shrugged. “True.” I rubbed my hands together. “I’ve still got the extra flashlight we used after she walked away with ours. It’s in my car trunk.”
She grinned, weakly, but her teeth gleamed in the soft tree lights. “What isn’t stored in your trunk?” Then a genuine smile lit her face. “Whatever isn’t stuffed into your front closet?”
Ginger was Miss Neat Freak while I took the opposite position. Somehow it worked for us.
My stomach muscles relaxed. Much as I loved Dirk, Ginger and I had been friends for over twenty-five years. You just don’t walk away from that history. I knew he’d understand my bedding down here, even though he had no long-time friendships from which to judge. He’d deliberately kept me in the dark on Shorter’s death. He could rethink his position while he missed me.
Thinking of partners, Ginger hadn’t said much about the separation from her husband Rob, but she couldn’t have been happy living in their McMansion alone. Even though she’d made it homey, that house was not her style. A night in Winslow House, her childhood home, could be just what she needed. Plus, I’d be digging for details, just like grade school and her first crush.
“I won’t worry so much with you here. You know, just in case we’re kept longer while giving our statements.”
Ginger’s words chilled me. I didn’t want to consider her worry coming true.
Chapter Six
Patricia entered the house after giving her additional statement on Sunday morning, eyes downcast and forehead wrinkled. Her expression morphed into vivacious a split second after noticing me. She removed her coat and threw it over a chair.
“Well, that’s over. Now we can move on.”
I looked around her. “Ginger? She wasn’t held, was she?”
“Dropped me off. We forgot to buy coffee beans. I think she’s shopping for bagels and more eggs, too.”
Phew. I exhaled my held breath. “Um, how did it go? Your statements?” Geez. As if Patricia needed a rehash of what she’d just been through.
“I admitted to an argument with Richard before being asked about it, so that’s a plus.”
“I’ve been wondering about that. You’ve never said what he did that made you threaten him with exposure.”
“Richard Shorter was a liar. A cheat.” She inhaled through her nose. “He sold fakes, and either forged or had someone forge letters of authenticity. Not only did he deceive me, he swindled the friends I sent to him.” She sank into a chair. “I know I’ll be forgiven eventually, but now that he’s dead, how many people will wonder if I worked with him to bilk them?”
Her eyelids fell as if she couldn’t bear to see the future. “After I got over my anger, I decided I’d be happy if he reimbursed the difference between good reproductions and originals. And never falsely advertise again. Now this situation may never be cleared.”
I figured anyone who could afford the stuff Shorter sold wasn’t hurting for money, but the blow to their pride could cause problems. Although Patricia had been taken in along with them, her analysis was correct. There were some in town who’d vocally blame her.
“How did you discover the fakes?”
She pushed her hair back and straightened her spine. “My insurance agent insisted I have an outside appraisal after I purchased an eighteenth-century bedroom suite for the guest room. I didn’t think I needed the additional paperwork. The provenance looked clean, and I trusted Richard.” She sighed. “Now I’m glad my agent pushed me to consult with a Charlotte dealer.”
A glint flashed in her eyes. “Of course, my agent’s wife hung around Shorter, so maybe he had a personal reason for investigating Richard.”
My mouth dropped open. “Don’t tell me. An affair, right?”
Patricia’s face regained a healthy color. “Okay, I won’t tell you.” She grinned. “But Madeline Rose wasn’t Richard’s only regular afternoon visitor.”
The doorknob rattled, and I jumped to help Ginger, who stood on the threshold, her hands holding multiple bags. We bustled around the kitchen preparing enough food to carry us through the final four hours of the home tour. But Patricia’s last words ran through my thoughts as I cut and chopped by rote.
Richard Shorter had more secrets than anyone realized, and they’d begun flying home to roost. Murder is never justified, but in his case may have been premature justice.
I know that sounds cold but he’d messed with Patricia. No one cons my family and gets away scot-free.
****
We’d thought the quantity of tour goers would drop off the final day. If anything, the number of people waiting to tour Winslow House had grown. Patricia’s home tour assistant began sending people to other homes when she saw the neighbors weren’t getting their fair share of visitors. Even so, we still had a line outside thirty minutes before the tour’s end.
I was sick to death of wearing a heavy costume, smiling, overhearing lurid gossip, and avoiding questions.
When the assistant mentioned she wanted to extend the tour hours, I snapped. The good news is I’ll never be asked to volunteer for anything by that woman again. The bad news is, well, there is no bad news. Not from that confrontation anyway.
Darkness had fallen when I tucked my jeans-clad legs under me and relaxed into the sofa. Dirk had left a message that he’d be by to pick me up at seven o’clock, so I enjoyed a glass of wine and appetizers with Ginger and Patricia.
We sat in a silence that long-time friends can share and remain comfortable. I admired them for keeping their cool this weekend. That’s why I didn’t want to destroy our comfort level, but my curiosity got the upper hand.
“Ginger, I hope Dirk didn’t act like an ass this morning. Did he? Because if he did I’ll chew him out, but good. Or did you give your statement to Matt?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Dirk. And you’ll have to kiss his butt, instead. He was polite. Almost sweet.”
“Good.”
She swung her legs to the floor. “Katie, you can’t stop him from doing his job.” She rested her elbows on her knees. “Much as I hate to admit it, my mom and I are suspects.”
Patricia coughed. “Why would you say that? Neither of us are violent types. Yes, I had an argument with Richard, but I’d have offered him a way to salvage his reputation and business.”
“Do you think Madeline Rose would agree with you?”
I knew what Ginger meant. Mrs. Rose had witnessed the scene at Shorter’s store, seen us laughing over wine after his body was found, and once the news about Patricia’s non-antiques made the rounds, another motive would be obvious. Not to mention Patricia had dragged him into the kitchen during the open house just before he’d died on her back steps. I knew Dirk and Matt had practice ignoring pressure from the Mayor’s office, but still wasn’t happy with Ginger’s analysis. Patricia as the murderer and Ginger as her accomplice.
Patricia gulped her drink and replaced an empty glass on the table beside here. “Put that way, I see your point.”
“I don’t agree. Sure, maybe it looks kinda bad. But I believe in Dirk and Matt,” I said. “They’ll
find the killer. The real killers.”
Ginger dropped her head to her chest. Patricia finished off her wine and poured another glass.
Someone should shoot me, or better yet, fit me for a muzzle. Me and my curiosity. I changed the subject.
“So, the tours went well, right? No broken vases, trees all intact. I think I even have all the pieces of my costume in one place.”
Patricia gave me a sweet smile. She threw back her shoulders. “Yes, the tour went well. I haven’t heard the final numbers, but wouldn’t be surprised to learn this year broke all records.”
As if Ginger absorbed her mother’s strength, she also straightened. “Someone told me Mona had her usual long lines. No doubt the other merchants did well. This year’s events were good to everyone.”
Her mouth clamped shut, but the words didn’t need voicing. Yes, Dickens Days were a success for everyone.
Everyone except Dick Shorter.
Luckily for me, Dirk chose that moment to arrive. I hugged Ginger and Patricia good-bye. At the same time, I whispered that they shouldn’t worry, but heck. If I’d been them, I’d be a basket case. Or should I say cases? Anyway, I’d be worried.
Dirk helped me carry the hellish Victorian costume to the car. We settled into the front seats, but he didn’t immediately start the engine. Uh-oh.
He half turned. His fingers tucked a few wayward tresses behind my ear. “How’re you doing?”
Shoot. I’d been expecting a lecture. Instead, he hit me with a soft touch and concerned expression.
“Okay. I wish I hadn’t asked Ginger how it had gone with you, though.”
His fingers dropped to my shoulders. “Why? Did she say I gave her a rough time? Are you ticked?”
I cupped his chin with my palm. “Nope, she gave you high marks.” Shifting closer, I punctuated my gratitude with a kiss.
He followed up with his own version of thanks. Our foreheads touched lightly. We sat in the dark car, not speaking for a few moments.
Dirk pulled back. His thumb smoothed my eyebrow. “So what’s wrong? Besides you trying to interfere with my investigation. Again.”
Dickens of a Death Page 4