THE CRIME: What do we know?
First I wrote: Setup—elaborate!
Under that: Targeted
Knew Chadwick
Knew Summerlea
There was so much that bothered me. The setup. The whole charade of the luncheon. The food, the place settings, the invitation itself. It had all been so very intricate, so perfectly staged. Elaborate also meant premeditated. The scam had been premeditated. Had the murder been premeditated as well? Was it intended all along that Chadwick be killed and that we would take the fall for it? Or had he turned up at the wrong time, in the middle of the scam, and been killed?
That led me to my next observation:
Targeted
Knew about Vera’s collection
Risky
We had definitely been identified and targeted. It would have taken time, planning and energy to reel Vera in to buy the Ngaio Marsh books. Whoever did it knew about Vera and her collection. And to what advantage? As Uncle Mick had pointed out, there were valuable paintings, silver and other goodies. Why go to the trouble to sell us the books, even if there had been a transfer of ten thousand dollars? That wasn’t such a huge amount of money. Why not just simply clean out Summerlea, fence what was taken and be gone, without anyone seeing your face? That would have had a higher rate of return, with far less risk of being identified. Unless the purpose was really to kill Chadwick and frame us.
Naturally, I wrote:
Why us?
Certainly Vera was still the most hated woman in Harrison Falls and surrounding communities. No news there. But were lingering resentments against the lone survivor of the haughty Van Alsts and the daughter of the man who closed the Van Alst factory and brought the town to its knees enough to do something like this? I imagined Uncle Lucky saying, “Why not run her over?”
Why not indeed?
Was the motivation jealousy? Vera still had the home, the books, the antiques and her staff, a life of comfort and privilege. In this era of Keeping Up with the Kardashians, who kills a frumpy old lady because she has lots of old stuff?
It lacked something.
I turned my mind to the next question.
Why Chadwick?
There was no doubt in my mind that the perpetrators were familiar with Chadwick and Summerlea. They’d needed the code for that impressive security system. I was pretty sure the back and side doors and the windows would all have been alarmed. The housekeeper had noted that system wasn’t set. The police hadn’t mentioned a break-in, so it was likely our friends also had a key. If they had a key and the code, did they also have a motive for murder?
Finally, I wrote: Who were they?
Even with the photo of “Lisa,” what were the chances that Vera, Kev or I would find a way to identify the other people at Summerlea? Still, with all those nosy neighbors, maybe one of them had seen our fake Chadwick and his team. They had taken a chance. But why?
Time passed, and I continued to analyze my paper. I was now up to three sheets of paper, all with arrows, sticky notes, squiggles and crossed-out words.
I rewrote my list and read over the analysis.
But now I knew we had to figure out how the plotters had gotten the key and the codes. I could think of only three possibilities.
Chadwick had given the code or he’d been there to let them in or someone who was close to Chadwick had access to the key and code. I knew one employee who could have done that. The heartbroken Lisa Hatton.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AT ELEVEN, SIGNORA Panetone staggered up the stairs with a large mug of delicious hot chocolate and a couple of biscotti. Why would I resist? We were trying to behave normally, and that means saying yes to the signora. Given the hour, it seemed unlikely that I’d be called out to help Uncle Kev in any way or that Castellano and Stoddard would pound on the door with a warrant for my arrest and that I’d be hauled off to be grilled by “the rubber hose brigade,” another “uncle-ism.” For the record and in case you’re worried, none of my uncles has ever ended up on the wrong side of a rubber hose, but you’d never know it to hear them talk.
The day with all its events had gotten to me, and the biscotti and cocoa seemed necessary. I mean, there wasn’t only the worry about Uncle Kev and the possibility of any or all of us getting arrested, nor was it the violation of our lives and property. Chadwick Kauffman had been murdered in a horrible way and we were—for a reason we didn’t know—deeply involved.
“Vera is not sleeping,” the signora said darkly and with a bit of worry on her puckered face. “No good.”
I nodded. I knew why Vera wasn’t sleeping. The signora, herself, never appeared to close an eye, so there wasn’t much point in urging that she go to bed.
I took my mug of chocolate and wandered downstairs to check on my laundry. I hung my delicate items up to air-dry and then went to the library, wondering if I’d find Vera there or if she was upstairs in her own suite, stewing. But I located her in the study, with a fire in the fireplace. She was wrapped in an ancient tartan dressing gown. It was probably pure wool, something you’d need in the study on a cold night, and from the look of it, that garment may have belonged to her father. I looked closer and, sure enough, there was the monogram LVA. Leonard Van Alst. She glanced up from her much-interrupted New York Times crossword and gave me a bleak look.
“Are the police still there?”
“One bored and cold but well-fed officer is still sitting in his vehicle. They’re obviously not taking chances that we’ll run off.”
She snorted. “As if that would stop any of us. At least the other two haven’t come to arrest us yet.”
“In case anything happens, Vera, and I’m not within earshot . . .”
She fixed me with a glare. “You’d better be, Miss Bingham. I pay you to be within earshot.”
I decided to keep on her good side and not mention the books that had been carted off. “But, say, in a worst-case scenario—”
She huffed loudly. “You know I hate that expression.”
“Fair enough, I’ll try to avoid it in future. But what I want to say is that I have Sammy Vincovic if I get arrested. Who can we call for you if you’re taken in?”
“I? Why should I be taken in? I’ve already answered all their incredibly annoying questions.”
“Well, because you and I and Uncle Kev are implicated in Kauffman’s murder.”
“Absurd.”
“But we are. I’ve been thinking about it. The entire thing was a setup. I’m sure of it now. The stage was set to deceive us.”
“Well, we were in the wrong place at the wrong time. That could have happened to anyone.”
I sighed. “Hardly, Vera. We were part of a plan. They lured you with the books. They knew about you. They had to realize that you would want those books and that you would be willing to travel to . . .”
“They could have come here.”
“Right. But they didn’t. They got us to go to Summerlea. They staged an elaborate lunch. Why was that?”
“I don’t know, Miss Bingham. What are you suggesting?”
“I don’t know what I’m suggesting. But there must have been some reason for using Summerlea and for enticing us over there.”
“To get their mitts on my money.”
“That might have been part of it. If they’d stolen the books and brought them to you here and taken the cash from you, that would have been easier.”
“Part of it! Isn’t that enough?”
“They didn’t come here, which would have avoided that elaborate charade. No, we were lured to Summerlea. And now the police think we planned the entire thing and then lied about it.”
“But why would we?”
“Excellent question,” I said. “And I intend to find out. I think it has as much to do with us as it does Chadwick Kauffman.”
“I don’t see
how it could.”
“Is there anything I should know about your relationship with the Kauffmans, either one of them? Or any of their relatives?”
It’s hard to take Vera by surprise, but apparently, I’d done it.
“Nothing I can think of.”
“No old grudge or . . . ?”
“I met the uncle a million years ago at some tedious gala, but I don’t think he’d have remembered. Aside from that, I was never at Summerlea or anywhere else where I came face-to-face with a Kauffman. I don’t know any of their relatives or even if they have any. I can’t imagine what the connection could be.”
I said, “So back to my point: You should have legal representation. And you’ll need someone very good. Sammy can’t represent both of us or even Uncle Kev if he’s taking my case. I can ask him to recommend someone or ask, um, my uncles if they may know someone else, but we should do something.”
“Do what you must, Miss Bingham. Not that fool Dwight Jenkins.”
“No chance of that. And that brings me to another issue,” I said, stiffening my spine.
“Out with it, then, and in my lifetime, please.”
“Yes, well. We are in a very tough spot, and I am going to do my best to keep us out of the police station and jail, not to mention avoiding trials.”
“Would it ever come to that?” Vera actually took her eyes off the puzzle.
I said. “It could. And finding out what’s going on may involve incurring some expenses.” I was starting to talk like a blend of Vera and one of Ngaio Marsh’s characters.
“It’s already been said, Miss Bingham.”
It had been said? I blinked. “Oh, you mean, ‘Do what I must’?”
“Try to keep up.” She went back to her puzzle.
“I’ll pass on the bills,” I said, with an attempt to maintain my dignity.
She ignored me. Fine. It was bedtime, and my response was to yawn widely.
“Good night, Miss Bingham,” Vera said, absently, glancing up briefly.
“Time for me to hit the hay,” I said, channeling my Uncle Billy, who had apparently spent a lot of time sleeping in barns.
I left her with her fire and her puzzle and the understanding that I’d find out what the connection was, although so far, I hadn’t been winning any prizes for that.
* * *
I’D HIT A wall with my theorizing, and there was a police officer in the driveway keeping me in my place. I decided to focus my mind and escape into the world of Ngaio Marsh’s Death at the Dolphin, yet another theatrical mystery. I’d see if I found some useful connection while I was reading or sleeping or worrying.
I burrowed down under the comforter, luxuriating in the historic theater—the Dolphin of the title—and all the over-the-top characters from the play about Shakespeare and a glove that belonged to his young son, Hamnet. This was the play that would revive the theater and make the name of the young playwright and the players. The stakes were high. I felt a little shiver as I compared the situation with the one we found ourselves in.
As I read on, I chuckled over the relationships, betrayals, alliances, ego and deceits in the fictional production. I had loved being involved with productions. Marsh captured it so perfectly. It all took me back to college. I’d spent a bit of time on the stage and considerably more behind the scenes. My talents ran to costumes and props and less to emoting onstage. I don’t mind saying I’d made a wonderful Mrs. Drudge in The Real Inspector Hound, but that had not been the route to more glamorous parts. Uncle Mick’s antique shop with its bits of everything and my entire family’s familiarity with disguise came in handy. I had been in demand, if not as an actress. It had even led to romance, but that was not such a happy ending. Lance had helped me deal with all that. Good old Lance. You could always count on him.
I sat bolt upright and actually banged my head on the iron bedstead. Lance! I had hidden my burner phone after insisting that he use that to stay in touch. I made my way to my hiding place and retrieved the phone.
I had a pretty firm idea that Lance might be hopping mad around now. I did hope—smart boy that he was—that he would figure out I had good reasons for not responding.
My reasons were that I’d been distracted by police and searches and planted evidence and lawyers and the threat of arrest. Still, I felt like a giant pink goofball. How could I have forgotten Lance?
Uh-oh.
Fifteen texts.
I climbed back into my comfy bed and pulled up the flower-sprigged comforter and bit my lip.
The good news: Text number 1. Lance had found something that I would find interesting.
Text numbers 2 through 12: Lance wondered why I hadn’t responded to his first text, considering all the trouble he went to find out this very interesting bit of information. I had gotten his point, although I would have been happier if he’d said what the interesting “bit of information” was rather than sniping at me for my slowness.
Text number 13: It seemed to have occurred to him that all wasn’t well. Was I all right?
Text number 14: What was happening?
Text number 15: Apparently, Lance was getting dressed and coming over to find out what the bleep was going on. Now!
I dialed his number in the hope I could save him a trip.
I blurted before he could even say “hello.” “So sorry, Lance. I am alive, but we have been invaded by police today and things were out of my control.” I crossed my fingers and fibbed. I couldn’t bring myself to say that I’d forgotten about my burner phone.
“I couldn’t get near this phone for reasons that I’m sure you will figure out.”
“Are you okay? I’ve been flipping out here. I was just coming over.”
“Better to get your beauty sleep. The police are watching us. There’s a police car in front of the house, and it’s probably better if that officer doesn’t see you. You don’t want to end up connected to the case.”
I thought I heard Lance gulp. “I’m not worried.”
“Well, we might need the flexibility of one of us not being considered a suspect or accessory.”
“Right. Flexibility, that’s good.”
“I need to thank you for helping me. How about I meet you at the library tomorrow—if I’m not in jail—and I can take you to dinner to thank you?” I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist that.
“I’ve been looking forward to trying Mr. Grimsby’s Bistro,” Lance said. “And I have to make a presentation to the library board meeting tomorrow night, so lunch? Small plates are good for lunch.”
“Sure thing. Everyone’s talking about Mr. Grimsby’s.” That Lance, so classy. There you go, Vera, I thought. The first of your expenses will go to a stylish new dining spot. Lunch was better for me because it would get me moving along earlier. Not that I had anywhere to go or anything to do, but I was hopeful. “Now, before we fall asleep, let’s hear what you’ve found out that’s so interesting.”
I could hear the excitement in his voice. “I recognized an old acquaintance from the photo. I told her I’m doing a bit of research for an article in a library journal on the value of photography in researching social networks.”
I laughed out loud. “Brilliant!”
“I know it’s a stretch. But she bought it. I sent her the image, cropped out of the group shot, and she told me everything about this woman. Her name is Shelby Church. I’m going to meet my friend for breakfast tomorrow. I’ll print the entire group photo and see what else I can turn up.”
“But this is already great, Lance. We have a name.”
“Maybe not entirely good news.”
Lance does love to tease, although sometimes his timing sucks. I sighed. “Why would that be?”
“Shelby’s an actress—”
“She’s an actress? Really? Why isn’t it good news?”
“According to my
friend, after a couple of years in off-off-Broadway flops, she’s got her first big break in a film and she’s finishing up filming a thriller in Europe—Prague, I think. My connection was pretty surprised and insinuated the picture was low-budget and wouldn’t ever hit the big screen, probably go straight to DVD or whatever, but my point is I guess Shelby couldn’t have been involved.”
“It’s not hard to be somewhere that you aren’t. Or not be somewhere that you are. That’s easy peasy, Lance.” Or it is in my family, anyway.
“I guess so. I imagine the police will check her flight arrangements and all that.”
“Why would they when they’re so keen on pinning the whole thing on us? Ah, sorry, Lance. I’m on edge. The cops are getting to me, and we don’t know from one minute to the next when we’ll be arrested.”
“Is there anything I can do to help with that?”
“Thanks. You already have. This could be our first real break. I appreciate it.” I figured I could mouse around the Internet chasing this Shelby.
“We’d both better get our beauty sleep. I’ll let you know what happens tomorrow.”
I could feel fatigue descending, like a big boot from the sky. Seconds after we disconnected, I was sound asleep. So much for chasing Shelby Church across the wasteland of the Internet.
* * *
AFTER BREAKFAST, I took a thermos of coffee and some pastries to the latest officer stationed in the driveway.
“I need to go to the library to do some research,” I said after handing them over. “If that’s not illegal or anything, you could follow me or call for backup. Can you find out if that will be okay? I’m not crazy about having some kind of ‘takedown,’ so let’s do this by the book.”
It is possible that I’d been watching too many police procedurals.
He stared at the pastries and then at me. I said, “Take your time and have your breakfast. I have a few things to do in the meantime.”
The Marsh Madness Page 16