His eyes filled with alarmed sympathy. “Oh man. Professor Woodhouse lent you a brooch, and it's gone? That's a tough break. If you want, I'll tell her you do have a concussion. I'll tell her you almost died. Would that help?"
"Probably not,” I said. “But thanks for the thought. Have you arrested Carson?"
"We can't find him,” he said. “Best guess is, he did whatever he did, then took off in a hurry. He did call 911, though, from his cell phone, to report there were two people hurt or dead next to the dumpster. That's how we found you so fast."
"Handy,” I said. “A criminal who calls in his own crimes. But Little Dave ... if he wasn't shot, how was he killed? And do you know what Carson hit me with?"
"We're waiting for lab reports on Little Dave,” Barry Glass said. “As to what you were hit with, we found something—a little iron statue of a lion in a chef's hat. That could've been what your assailant used. Any idea what it is?"
"It's a centerpiece,” I said. “When we were at Chez Cubbe, I saw Carson fiddling around with the one on his table. He could've stolen it, hidden it in his jacket."
"That'd fit,” he said, nodding. “The statue's covered with fingerprints. We'll know soon if they're Carson's—we got plenty of his prints on file. Possession, car theft, all kinds of stunts he pulled, probably to support his habit. Nothing for the last five years, though—the cook at the waffle house said Carson sobered up and took a job at a halfway house in Baltimore. Guess he didn't get as sober as the cook thought. All right, Miss Russo. Let's go through your story once more. Give me the exact truth this time."
"That's what I gave you last time,” I said, but went over it again, filling in all the details I could scrape up, making my head hurt even more fiercely. We'd started a third run-through when Professor Woodhouse burst in, an orderly clinging to her arm.
"Naughty man!” she cried, pointing at Barry Glass. “You have kept this poor child in here nearly two hours, despite the injuries she suffered. She is innocent of any wrongdoing and utterly without guile. I told you that before you began this merciless interrogation, I tell you again now. Yet you persist. You, sir, are a bully and a fool."
Detective Barry Glass jumped to his feet, swallowed twice, and pointed shakily at me. “She lost your brooch,” he said.
"And what if she did?” the professor demanded. “I am sure she did so in the pursuit of justice. Come, little Harriet. Your ordeal is over. I am taking you home."
Barry Glass took one timid step forward. “The doc says she should spend the night here for observation, in case—"
"And who is better able to observe her than I?” the professor countered. “My daughter and I shall gather her to our collective bosom. She shall sleep in the blue bedroom, and we will take turns sitting up with her all night. Harriet! Come!"
Barry Glass isn't an idiot—he knows when he's beaten. He bowed his head, the professor wrapped a mighty arm around me, and we were gone.
* * * *
I woke up the next morning to the soothing impression of sunlight warming crisp linen curtains, to the sight of Miss Woodhouse sitting in the Queen Anne chair near my bed, her eyes fixed on the laptop perched on the nightstand.
She glanced at me. “Feeling better?” she asked.
"Much,” I said.
She nodded. “The bathroom's down the hall to the left. You'll find towels in the cupboard, fresh clothes in the closet. Half an hour. Mother's making breakfast."
I don't know how she managed the fresh clothes, and I didn't press for details: It doesn't do to press the Woodhouses for details about how they manage things. I showered and changed, arriving downstairs just as the professor was setting breakfast on the table—tuna macaroni salad, sweet potato casserole, olive-and-onion scones, Jell-O.
"Sit, little Harriet,” she said, beaming. “Eat well and tell us about last night."
I ate everything, told them everything, answered all their questions. When I finished, Miss Woodhouse folded her napkin. “Now I'll tell you what I know,” she said. “I've spoken to the coroner's office and the police department—"
"Not to That Man, I trust,” her mother said icily, buttering a scone.
Miss Woodhouse glanced away. “He's the officer in charge of the case, Mother. First, as to Little Dave's cause of death. Lab results are still pending, but he had a large, clumsy puncture wound on his neck. The coroner thinks it's from a hypodermic needle. He was injected with something—evidently not a street drug, more likely some household chemical—and that evidently killed him."
"Well, Detective Glass said Stanley Carson's been arrested for possession in the past,” I said, “and that he stole to support his habit. A drug addict, a hypodermic needle—that fits."
"That's the prevailing theory with the police,” she said, “though Carson seems to have been clean for years, and it's hard to say why an addict would carry about a hypodermic loaded with household chemicals. At any rate, those were indeed his prints on the iron figurine. Traces of your blood were found on it too."
"So Carson's definitely the one who hit me,” I said.
Miss Woodhouse shrugged. “It appears so."
Her mother looked at her and smiled. “But you don't think so."
"I think we've been manipulated,” Miss Woodhouse said, “and I don't like that thought. Three people came to see us yesterday and said they wanted to get rid of a troublesome man. With our help—and Little Dave's—they are now rid of him. He's wanted for murder, and the police can't find a trace of him."
"So he's hiding out,” I said. “That figures—it's what a guilty person would do."
"Or a scared person,” Miss Woodhouse said, “who knows he'd be easy to frame."
"You think someone's framing him?” I said. “Who?"
"I'm not sure,” she said, “but yesterday afternoon might well have created the impression we'd be unlikely to detect an attempt to frame an innocent person and might even be maneuvered into becoming unwitting accessories in such an attempt."
I thought of the things Miss Woodhouse and her mother said when Brenda, Terry, and Chuck were here. Well, sure. After the show we'd put on, who wouldn't think that Miss Woodhouse is an irresponsible drunk, that I'm too flighty to handle a firearm? And then Little Dave had promptly tried, twice, to put a gun in my hand. “Do you think Little Dave hoped I'd panic and shoot Carson? But Little Dave was the one who got killed."
"Perhaps the plan went wrong,” Miss Woodhouse said, “or perhaps he knew about only part of the plan. Think about the computer map found on Little Dave's body. Clearly, somebody already knew Carson always went to the waffle house after leaving Chez Cubbe. Probably somebody had followed him there."
"Could be,” I agreed. “They've been wondering about this guy for three months. It wouldn't be surprising if someone decided to follow him."
"And managed to do so without being detected,” the professor put in brightly and gave me a friendly wink. I blushed.
"Be that as it may,” Miss Woodhouse said, “I doubt Little Dave was the one who followed Carson—he wouldn't need a map if he'd already driven the route himself. Someone else must have followed Carson, told Little Dave, and drawn him into the plan. But this person must not have known Little Dave decided he needed a map—not if this person had been planning all along to kill Little Dave and frame Carson."
"So you think maybe Brenda or Terry or Chuck wanted to get rid of both Little Dave and Carson,” I said. “Do they have alibis?"
"Not strong ones,” Miss Woodhouse said, “according to the police. After Carson left Chez Cubbe, Little Dave and Terry had an argument. He wanted to follow you, she told him not to be a fool, he insisted. Then the restaurant closed for the night, and Brenda and the other waitress left, as usual. Normally, Chuck stays to clean up, but his cold had grown worse, so he went home. Terry remained at Chez Cubbe, did some cleanup, and got home shortly before midnight, when police came to tell her Little Dave was dead."
"Do any of them have anyone to back up their sto
ries?” I asked.
"Brenda might,” she said. “So far, the police have found several people who saw her at the bar, but no one who's sure she was there before eleven. That makes the timing for her tight but possible. Chuck went to bed without seeing or talking to anyone. There's nothing to back up Terry's story—except the phone conversation you overheard."
"She could've lied about still being at the restaurant,” I said. “And she's the one with a motive, right? With Little Dave dead, won't she inherit Chez Cubbe?"
"Presumably,” she said. “But inheriting a failing restaurant isn't a strong motive."
"Well, Little Dave must've had cash too,” I said. “He was planning renovations. Anyhow, the other two don't have any motive. Little Dave and Brenda seemed to be on friendly terms—very friendly. Chuck didn't like Little Dave much, but—"
"Yes, you said you sensed ill will between them,” the professor cut in. “Why?"
"Chuck thought Little Dave was a lousy chef,” I said. “Always burning stuff, always wasting money on gadgets like a Minute Marinator, a Sir Chops-a-Lot, a—"
"A Minute Marinator?” the professor asked. “How oxymoronic. What is it—a compression chamber of some sort?"
"Not a chamber,” I said. “It's just a thing you hold in your hand. There's a thick tube—you must put the marinade in that—and there's a plunger, and there's a pointy thing you must stick into the meat, and then—oh my God."
I stared at them; they stared at me. “It's like a hypodermic needle,” Miss Woodhouse said. “A large, clumsy hypodermic needle. Isn't it?"
"Exactly like that,” I said and jumped up, looking around wildly for my purse.
* * * *
When Miss Woodhouse and I arrived at Chez Cubbe just before nine o'clock, we found Chuck in the kitchen. Cupboard doors stood open; most shelves were empty; pots, pans, bowls, and cooking implements crowded the countertops. Chuck greeted us perkily.
"Hey, Harriet!” he said. “Great to see you up and around. Nice to see you, too, Miss Woodhouse. Shame about Little Dave, isn't it?"
"It is,” she said, looking around the room. “You seem to have major preparations underway. I would have thought the restaurant wouldn't be open tonight."
"It's not,” he said. “Terry says we should stay closed a few days, outta respect. I had to come finish cleanup anyway, so I thought I'd use the time to reorganize the cupboards—I been wanting to do that for a long time."
And now you have a free hand, I thought. “Your cold seems better,” I observed.
"Yeah,” he agreed. “Just a twenty-four-hour thing, I guess. You guys hungry?"
"No, thank you,” Miss Woodhouse said. “But Harriet's description of your cooking gadgets aroused my curiosity. She mentioned a Sir Chops-a-Lot and a Minute Marinator—might I see them?"
"You can have them,” he said, opening a drawer. “I don't want them. Here's the Sir Chops-a-Lot, and—that's funny. The Minute Marinator should be here too."
"Perhaps Little Dave moved it,” Miss Woodhouse suggested.
"Why? He never used it.” Chuck scratched his head, shrugged, and opened the immense dishwasher, packed full with clean dishes. “Here it is,” he said. “Little Dave must've used it after all. Weird. What the hell did he marinate?"
Or maybe, I thought, someone marinated Little Dave. A dishwasher-safe murder weapon—if it had been loaded with poison last night, there wouldn't be a trace left.
"If you don't mind, I think I will take this,” Miss Woodhouse said, dropping it into her purse. “It intrigues me. Will Terry keep the restaurant going, do you think?"
"Doubt it,” Chuck said. “She married into the restaurant business, but I never got the impression she likes it much. She'll probably sell."
"And will you buy?” I asked. “You said you have some savings stashed away."
"Not that much,” he said, “not on the measly salary Little Dave paid me. Of course, if I could find a partner—who knows? Sure I can't fix you something?"
Miss Woodhouse agreed to omelets, probably to give us an excuse for sticking around. Watching the jaunty way Chuck set butter sputtering in the pan and cracked three eggs at a time and sliced small mountains of peppers and onions, I had to conclude he wasn't weighed down by grief. As he slid the omelets onto our plates the door from the parking lot opened, and Brenda stepped in. I noticed how pale she looked, how weary.
Chuck glanced at her, then looked away. “I called you last night,” he said, “after the cops came by my place. But you weren't home. Where were you?"
"Clubbing.” She glanced self-consciously at Miss Woodhouse. “I went home for maybe like ten minutes, and then I went to a bar. I didn't get home till after two."
"On a Thursday? You must've been having a good time.” He couldn't keep his tone light. “Meet anybody special?"
"Please,” she said. “I just came to get my raincoat. I left it here last night—it was soaked. But it's my only black coat, I thought I might need it for ... well, you know. Then I'm gonna go see Terry to, like, pay my respects. Have you gone yet, Chuck?"
"No, I been here since six this morning,” Chuck said, “and I'm sorta into stuff. I'll go later, talk to her about the wake. I think we should have it here, invite other restaurant owners, food critics, like that. I'll cook—I got great ideas for appetizers."
"Sounds nice,” Brenda said, heading for the office. It was several minutes before she came back, the coat belted tightly around her waist, her hands thrust deep into its pockets. She tossed her hair back, looked at me, and smiled.
"So, tell me about last night,” she said. “The cops wouldn't give me details."
I didn't volunteer many either. “That's all I remember,” I finished.
"So this Carson knocked you out and killed Little Dave.” Brenda's face looked flushed now, not pale. “That's it? He didn't, like, steal anything?"
"I forgot to mention that,” I said. “Apparently, he took Little Dave's wallet and phone, plus jewelry from both of us."
"Really?” she said. “He took all the jewelry you had on? Everything? Too bad. Well, I've got errands to run before going to Terry's. See you later, Chuck."
"If you feel like it,” he said, still not looking at her, “come back later. I'm gonna try out some recipes for the wake. You could sample them, if you feel like it."
"I'll call you,” she said, and left. We lingered, savoring our omelets but not learning much from Chuck. Then Miss Woodhouse decided we, too, should make a sympathy call. I agreed, glumly. Yesterday, when she'd had no reason to dislike me, Terry had been curt; today, when she might blame me for her husband's death, she'd be worse. But Miss Woodhouse was right. As detectives, as human beings, we had to go see her.
The house she'd shared with Little Dave bordered the historic district, not ten minutes from the restaurant. Like most houses in the area, it was old and small, with the automatic charm most old, small houses in Annapolis have. She opened her front door, lifted an eyebrow at the sight of us, and led us to a tiny living room decorated in shades of beige. She wore a widowlike black skirt and sweater, but every hair was in place, her makeup was as precise as it had been yesterday, her air was placid. She looked fine.
"I suppose,” she said, crossing her legs, “you've come about payment. Will you talk to Brenda and Chuck about that. They may feel obligated to pay. I do not."
"We don't expect payment,” Miss Woodhouse said, matching Terry's passionless primness exactly. “We came only to express our sympathy."
Terry lifted the other eyebrow. “I doubt that,” she said.
When she's right, she's right. Miss Woodhouse nodded. “We also came to see if we can learn more about last night. A client was killed, my associate was injured, yet we don't know just what happened or why. Can you tell us anything that might help us?"
"Nothing,” Terry said. “I warned my husband not to follow Miss Russo. Later, when I called him just before I left the restaurant, I told him to come home. He wouldn't listen. Now he's dead. I mus
t say, Miss Russo, I would have thought a private detective could do a better job of protecting a client."
It wasn't my job to protect him, I wanted to say, he wasn't supposed to be there. But that would be beyond tactless. “I'm sorry,” I said.
She looked me over coldly. “I suppose,” she said, and stood up.
Clearly, she thought it was time for us to go. Thank God, Miss Woodhouse agreed. As we walked to the car, we saw Brenda walking up the street from the opposite corner. She spotted us, waved, but didn't slow her pace; in another minute, she was in the house.
"Terry didn't seem grief stricken,” I observed after we got into the car.
"No,” Miss Woodhouse agreed. “She could be being brave, but I'd guess it wasn't a particularly happy or loving marriage. That doesn't make her a murderer."
"It also doesn't give us any reason to think she's not a murderer,” I said. “Brenda seemed more upset. But maybe it was an act—she says she's a good actress. Chuck didn't even try to act upset, and he didn't get defensive when you asked about the Minute Marinator. That could mean he's innocent, right?"
"Or very clever,” she said, “or very, very dense. Our next task is to find Howard and ask why Carson was hounding him. That's our project for this afternoon."
It sounded tedious, possibly hopeless. Luckily, we didn't have to attempt it. When we got to Woodhouse Investigations, there was a classic Mustang in the driveway. When we walked into the east parlor, Howard was drinking tea with the professor.
"At last, Iphigenia,” the professor said. “I hope you haven't exhausted Harriet. Allow me to introduce Mr. Howard Braxton. He came here minutes after you left. He heard a news report that Little Dave had been killed and a Woodhouse Investigations employee injured. He's eager to help but reluctant to go to the police. So he came here."
As simple as that. “I feel horrible about Little Dave,” Howard said, shaking Miss Woodhouse's hand. “And to think I caused his death by meeting Stan at Chez Cubbe! But I never thought Stan could kill anyone. I can still hardly believe it."
"Perhaps you don't have to,” Miss Woodhouse said. “Perhaps that's not how it happened. Please, sit down. And tell me about Stanley Carson."
AHMM, May 2008 Page 3