Butler Did It

by Donna McLean

  Avery James looked Officer Campbell straight in the eye. “I swear to you, that man was alive when I left the room!”

  EIGHTEEN

  Officer Campbell stared at the reports placed before him on his desk. His partner, Officer Mick McFayden, stood on the other side of the desk and waited silently.

  After a few minutes the young man broke into the older man’s thoughts. “Interesting, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Um hmm,” Campbell mumbled, spreading the papers out in front of him.

  “But Butler’s prints aren’t there. He’s the one you were looking for, isn’t he?”

  Campbell grunted. “May have worn gloves or wiped the scene.”

  The young officer continued, “Avery James, who admits to being in the room with the victim. No surprises there.”

  “Surprises,” Campbell repeated, and read aloud. “Edison Farlow, prints found on fireplace mantel and—”

  “Sir, Edison unlocked the door and entered the room with us,” McFayden reminded Campbell. “So his fingerprints at the scene aren’t surprising.”

  Campbell grunted and continued reading. “Mayor Motley. One fingerprint found on silver candlestick.” He glanced at the crime scene photos spread out on his desk. “That candlestick was on the corner of the desk where the victim was found.” He went back to the report, flipped the page to the next name, and swore under his breath.

  Campbell rubbed tired eyes with one hand and asked, “Where did you get this information, Mick?”

  “An arrest report from twenty-five years ago, sir. The prints match those of a minor arrested for shoplifting.”

  Campbell nodded. “Good work, Mick.” His voice was tired, flat as he intoned without emotion, “Edith Pidgeon. Before she was known as Maybellanne Motley.”

  Silence filled the room while the young man waited. Officer Campbell drummed a finger against the name Edith Pidgeon, then shuffled the reports and the crime scene images, spread them out again and took a few more minutes to examine them.

  “Suspects, motives, opportunities. Suspects placed at the scene of the crime. Evidence points everywhere and nowhere. Nothing to set one suspect apart from the others in any definite way. Short of a confession, which doesn’t seem forthcoming at the moment, only one thing can help us solve this crime. McFayden, what’s missing from this picture?”

  “The murder weapon,” the young man answered promptly.

  “Right,” Campbell said. “A gold star for you. We have got to find that gun.”

  NINETEEN

  The mayor’s wife carried herself with her usual cool demeanor and met the policeman’s gaze without flinching, taking the chair he offered her and casting a swift, unconcerned glance around his small office. Officer Campbell decided to use the direct approach.

  “Maybellanne, we know that you were at the MacGuffin Mansion the night of the murder. We know why you were there. All I want to know now, Mrs. Motley, is who killed Victor Aldric.”

  “It wasn’t me.” She stated it as unquestionable fact.

  “Tell me what happened. From the moment you got there until the moment you left.”

  She studied Douglas’ face for a moment, glanced down at her diamond rings, and seemed to come to a decision. Mrs. Motley lifted her soft brown doe eyes and met the officer’s gaze without flinching. “I went there to confront a blackmailer,” she stated as calmly as though this were an everyday occurrence. “I had no intention of giving him money. I want you to know that.”

  He waited.

  She continued, “I told him that the pictures were fake and that I was going to the police. He laughed at me. He said that it wouldn’t matter if the pictures were real or not, that once the photos were published people would believe whatever they wanted to believe, that Hubbell’s reputation would be ruined.” She paused. “Our life together would be ruined.”

  “And this made you angry?” Campbell prompted her.

  The beautiful brown eyes flashed. “Of course it made me angry! He was threatening my husband!”

  “So you shot him?”

  Maybellanne Motley grimaced. “No! I did not shoot him. I was angry, I was furious, but I was also scared. Alone with that scumbag in that creepy old house. What was I thinking, going there by myself? It was a crazy idea.”

  “So you confronted him, and he laughed at you. What happened next?”

  “He laughed, a crazy, psycho kind of laugh. He started calling me terrible names. I thought, I’m alone here with this horrible, cruel, insane man. Nobody knows I’m here. And then I heard a noise from somewhere else in the house. I thought, I’ve got to get out of here! So I ran! I ran out the door, and I heard him laughing behind me. Then he yelled something at me and slammed the door. The door to the room where he got killed. But I kept running. I didn’t stop running until I was back at the party.”

  Maybellanne put a hand to her forehead. “I grabbed a drink and I sat down at a table, and watched my husband. So happy, so kind, so much in his element, moving through the crowd, greeting everyone, interested in everyone. I thought, I let him down. I should have killed that man when I had the chance. . . but I didn’t . . . .” Her voice trailed off into a whisper.

  “How did James get involved?”

  The elegant blond put her hands over her eyes. She sat very still. Then she placed the hands in her lap and said, “When I heard that Victor Aldric had been murdered I assumed the nightmare was over. No one knew that he had been in touch with me. No one knew I had gone to the mansion. But a few days later James approached me. He showed me the photo and said he was Aldric’s partner and that the deal was still on. He demanded more money.” Maybellanne touched her lips with shaking fingers. “The nightmare started all over again!”

  Campbell leaned forward, his voice urgent. “Did you see James at the mansion? Could that have been the noise you heard?”

  Maybellanne shook her head. “I don’t think so. Maybe. I didn’t see him.”

  “Where were the photos? On the desk?”

  She shook her head again. “Aldric didn’t show me anything. I didn’t see any pictures on the desk, either. But the light was dim. And I was only interested in trying to bluff Aldric out of the blackmail scheme. No, I don’t know where the pictures were.”

  “You didn’t grab the pictures and run?”

  Maybellanne Motley lifted her chin and met his eyes with defiance. “No.”

  “You could have grabbed the pictures, shot Vic Aldric and ran.”

  “No! No, Douglas, I didn’t! I promise you, that man was still alive when I left the room!”

  TWENTY

  Officers Campbell and McFayden stood in the hallway of the MacGuffin Mansion, staring into the room that had been the scene of the crime.

  “I do not see how that gun can be anywhere in this house, sir.” The young policeman shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  Campbell crossed his arms. “I don’t see it either, son, but call it a hunch. We’ve turned this little town upside down, searched high and low. We’ve investigated every suspect more than once. To this day we still don’t know, for a fact, if that gun ever left this house.”

  “Way I figure it, sir, is, that gun has got to be with James, or with Mrs. Motley. They both admit they were here the night of the murder. They both left prints at the scene. They each have a motive. Butler denies being here and there’s no motive, unless he’s just plain crazy.”

  Campbell grunted. “Could have worn gloves. And he doesn’t have an alibi. Motive’s shaky, though.”

  “Mrs. Motley and Avery James insist the victim was still alive when they left.”

  Officer Campbell shrugged. “One’s lying.”

  “Or, they are both telling the truth!” a spritely voice called out behind them.

  The two men turned around, one grinning, one groaning.

  “Ms. Tilda. Addie McRae. What the—” Campbell caught himself just in time—“what the heck are you two ladies doing here? And how did you gain entrance to the hous
e?”

  Tilda scurried to the tall man’s side and beamed at him. “Why, we just followed y’all right on in!”

  Mick said apologetically, “That’s my fault, sir, I left the front door propped open. It’s awful hot and smelly in here.”

  “Did I overhear you say that the gun might still be inside the house?” Tilda MacArdan asked.

  Campbell ran a frustrated hand across his blond curls. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Addie said, “And it seems like the gun is crucial to solving this case.”

  “We will be glad to help!” Tilda said. “Addie and Pearce Allen are going on a treasure hunt anyway, isn’t that right, Addie? And we might as well look for a murder weapon along the way.”

  “Allowing citizens to conduct a search for a weapon. Is that correct protocol, sir?” McFayden had a doubtful look on his childlike face.

  Campbell exhaled in a long sigh. “You got me. Not much protocol around this case, at least not where this kooky old mansion is concerned. Ladies, your search is only for the alleged treasure. The murder room is off limits. Everything else, have at it. But if you find anything that may have been used in a crime, any little thing at all—”

  “Yes, Douglas Winton, we will not touch anything and we will call you right away!” Tilda patted his arm. “Y’all go on with your police business. It won’t trouble us a bit.” She whisked out a flashlight and headed for the parlor.

  The two men entered the murder room, shutting the door behind them. Addie stood in the hall and studied the notes she had jotted down in the old burying ground. A few minutes later she heard Pearce Allen’s quick footsteps coming across the porch, and smiled.

  His blue eyes lit up when he saw her. “So, what’s this bright idea you have?”

  “For now or for later?” she teased.

  He gave her a quick kiss. “Treasure hunt now, bright idea later?”

  “Sounds good. Follow me to the sitting room, or game room, or whatever MacGuffin called it, and let us make a closer examination of the chess set.”

  Peace Allen stood still, surprised. “The chess set?”

  Addie motioned him to hurry up. “Yes, the chess set! I’ve been going over the notes I made at the cemetery and the photos you took of the headstone. There are some interesting similarities between the carvings on the fireplace and the chess pieces.”

  The young man followed her into the room and eyed the chess table curiously. “So you think this is the key to everything?”

  Addie gave him a mysterious smirk. “Well, the key of the King, anyway.” She picked up the dark chess piece that had four prongs but only three orbs on its tiny crown. “I think old man MacGuffin left a clue on his tombstone. A clue to the treasure hidden somewhere in this house.” She waltzed slowly across the floor, waving the chess piece under the baffled young man’s nose. “The treasure that may be hidden somewhere in this very room!”

  Addie stopped in front of a section of the fireplace and studied it carefully. Pearce Allen watched with curious eyes. The young woman placed a finger against a carved flower and traced the outline as she held the chess piece next to it. “See, Pearce Allen? On the center of this flower, and that one, and the one next to it, there are four tiny circles. Those circles are about the same size as these teeny tiny orbs on the top of the crown.”

  “Huh!” Pearce Allen commented.

  “And on the pictures you took, I noticed that all the flowers on the tombstone also have four tiny circles.” Addie moved to the next section and compared the flowers.

  “Four tiny circles. You really think that means something?” Pearce Allen sounded doubtful.

  The redhead nodded silently and continued exploring the woodwork. After a few minutes she said, “There was only one carved place on that tombstone in which there were not four tiny circles, but three,” and fell silent again, absorbed in what she was doing.

  Pearce Allen blinked his blue eyes and crossed his arms. “So, are you going to tell me what that means?” he asked.

  “The only place in which there were three circles was right beside the word ‘King’. Remember, Pearce Allen? We thought MacGuffin ran out of room when he was carving his tombstone and that he didn’t finish the word ‘Kingdom’. But while I was studying the photos I realized that couldn’t have happened.” Addie fell silent again. She held the chess piece up to a corner of the fireplace, and shook her head.

  “So what did happen?” the young man demanded.

  “MacGuffin did not run out of room, because right beside the word ‘King’ he carved one of these little symbols. He could have finished carving the word, but instead he carved a flower. And in the center of that flower there were only three circles!”

  Pearce Allen scratched his nose. He thought for a minute. Then he pondered this information out loud. “So old man MacGuffin meant his tombstone to say, ‘the keys of the King’, meaning the chess piece. And that phrase was to point us, or someone, to the flower that matched the three orbs on the king’s crown. And that flower would mark the spot—”

  “—of old man MacGuffin’s treasure!” Addie finished triumphantly, pointing to a carved flower upon the mantel of the fireplace, a flower whose center held only three tiny circles.

  Pearce Allen walked to the mantel and stood next to Addie. They stared at each other. They looked at the carved flower.

  Addie carefully inserted the three tiny orbs of the crown into the three tiny circles of the flower on the carved wooden mantel. She pushed. Nothing happened. She attempted to turn the chess piece to the left, using it like a key. There was no movement. She turned it to the right. With a slight click, the flower rotated and a small wooden panel slid open!

  Addie squealed and Pearce Allen let out a whoop. They put their heads close together and leaned forward to peer inside the tiny partition.

  A voice called out to them from the hall. “Did y’all holler? I declare, I’ve been hearing odd noises ever since I set foot in this place.” Tilda appeared in the doorway and suddenly realized the couple had discovered something. She trotted into the room. “What is it?” she asked, excited.

  “The gun!” Addie gasped.

  “The gun.” Pearce Allen stated it factually and reached out a grasping hand.

  Addie’s fingers closed over his hand quickly, stopping it mid-reach. Their eyes met. He said, “Darling!” and his lips brushed the back of her hand.

  Her lips brushed his ear. She whispered: “Fingerprints.”

  Light dawned. Pearce Allen said, “Ah!” and pulled back, reluctantly letting go of her hand.

  Tilda was hopping up and down behind them. “Let me see! Let me see!”

  Addie and Pearce Allen stepped aside. Tilda clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, a secret hiding place! It really is a secret hiding place! Is there a treasure inside?” The spry lady leaned forward and peered into the recessed wooden cube. She saw a gun on top of a stack of papers that were tied with a faded velvet ribbon. “Mercy me, what is that? Money? A will?” Then she saw something else. A pair of angry eyes stared back at her!

  “Ms. Tilda! Is that you? Don’t touch anything. Do not touch one single solitary thing!” Officer Campbell barked at her from the adjoining room, where he had suddenly seen a tiny section of the wainscoting slide open. “McFayden, you stay right here and look through this cubbyhole and make sure nobody touches a thing!” They could hear Campbell’s footsteps running through the murder room, out the door and down the hall toward the adjoining room where they were huddled around the secret panel.

  Tilda muttered, “Bless goodness, Douglas Winton Campbell, I’m not a hardheaded old fool. I know about fingerprints and evidence!” She put her hands on her hips and waited impatiently for the policeman to appear in the doorway. As soon as he entered the room she said, “The gun is right there and so is the treasure and I have not touched one itty bitty thing, and neither have Addie and Pearce Allen!”

  He gave the spry lady a quick grin before resuming his usual serious demeanor. “Excellen
t work, folks.”

  “Addie figured out how to find the panel,” Pearce Allen said.

  “Yes, sir, she surely did that!” Tilda agreed.

  Officer Campbell looked at the strawberry blond, who showed him the chess piece and explained the code on the tombstone.

  Campbell merely grunted, but Tilda noticed the gleam of respect in his eyes just before he ordered them off the premises and sealed the adjoining rooms to await the arrival of Joe Smyth, official crime scene photographer and fingerprint man.

  TWENTY ONE

  Officer Campbell scowled at the young policeman standing at awkward attention by the door of his office. Campbell was intent on reviewing the evidence that had been placed before him only a few minutes earlier, and was in no mood for interruptions. With the palm of his hand pressed against the folder that still lay closed upon his desk, he asked, “Yes?” rather rudely.

  McFayden squirmed under the impatient gaze of his partner. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but Ms. MacArdan is here and she insists on seeing you. Says it’s important.”

  “Important,” Douglas Campbell repeated. He shook his head and heaved a long, drawn out sigh. “Well, then, if it’s important, send her in.”

  He paused while the young man exited the office, then Campbell flipped open the top of the folder and stared at the name that jumped off the page at him. He nodded with a satisfied expression that revealed no surprise at the conclusion of the investigation. Then he closed the folder quickly, before the light footsteps hurrying toward his office could enter the room. Officer Campbell donned his best poker face and waited.

  “Hello, Ms. Tilda. How are you?” he inquired with extreme politeness, as though they were meeting for a church picnic rather than the revelation of a killer.

  “Impatient, that’s how I am!” She scanned the desk and leaned forward. A photo lay in full sight next to the manila folder.