Plaster and Poison

Plaster and Poison Page 22

by Jennie Bentley

  Kate and I did a simultaneous eye roll. “She wanted things to change,” I explained. “For you to work less and spend more time with her. Start a family, all that. I guess she thought by going back when you asked, she’d only go back to the same situation. But if you cared enough to leave work and come here, the two of you might be able to work things out.”

  Steve looked stricken. For a few seconds, at least. “But what about the pictures?”

  “There are no pictures. At least none we’ve found. That’s the only one, and it’s from the sofa in her office,” I explained. “Gerard lived in the apartment above. He probably stopped by at some point.”

  “Probably tried to seduce her,” Kate grumbled. “Or tried to get her drunk enough that she wouldn’t notice him rifling through the office files.”

  “That’s all fine,” Derek said, impatiently, “but if she’s not here, where is she? Cora called all of Bea’s friends in Waterfield yesterday. There weren’t many, and the few people she was close to growing up have mostly all moved away. The ones that are left didn’t know anything.”

  Steve nodded agreement. “There was no one in Waterfield she stayed in touch with, other than her mom.”

  “We’ve been calling you, too, by the way. You haven’t been answering.”

  “I didn’t want to tie up the line,” Steve muttered, his thin cheeks flushed. “In case Mr. Labadie called. Or Beatrice.”

  Derek rolled his eyes. “Whatever. She obviously didn’t talk to Alice, since Alice is just as worried as we are.”

  “We know she knew Gerard,” I said, “since he was staying in the apartment above her office, and it’s likely she met the Stenhams at some point, too.”

  “I spoke to Melissa,” Wayne said, “and she says she has no idea where Beatrice is. She says they weren’t friendly . . .”

  I shook my head. Beatrice loathed Melissa.

  “. . . but she said she would have expected Beatrice to let her or the Stenhams know if the office was going to be unmanned.”

  “She’s very conscientious,” Steve whispered. “And responsible. She wouldn’t just leave.”

  Wayne nodded. “And Melissa says that as far as she knows, Ray doesn’t know where Beatrice is, either. She says he would have told her if he did.”

  “You’d better believe it,” Derek muttered. “Melissa isn’t the kind of woman it’s easy to keep secrets from.”

  “You would know. And where I wouldn’t put it past her to lie”—Wayne glanced at Derek, who shook his head—“I don’t think she’d be a party to kidnapping or murder.”

  Derek agreed. “Absolutely not,” he said. “She may have somewhat elastic morals, but she’s too self-serving to take part in anything really illegal. She wouldn’t do something that could get her in real trouble.”

  Wayne nodded. “The Stenhams are both accounted for the whole afternoon when she went missing. I figured I might as well ask, just so I’d know. Ray had lunch with Melissa and then they went home for . . . um . . .”

  He paused, seeking an acceptable euphemism.

  “You can say it,” Derek said, “I’m aware of what they’re doing.”

  “Right. And while they were busy . . . um . . . at home, Randy was holding down the fort at Devon Highlands. There were workers and clients coming and going all afternoon. Neither of the brothers, assuming Melissa can be trusted, had the opportunity to go to Clovercroft and abduct Beatrice.”

  “I wouldn’t trust Melissa any farther than I can throw her,” Derek said, “but again, I don’t think she’d be a party to kidnapping or murder. If she says she and Ray were spending the afternoon in bed, I’m sure that’s exactly where they were.”

  “So where is she?” Steve asked, desperation in his voice.

  Nobody answered.

  “Why don’t you pack up and come back to Waterfield with us?” Derek suggested after a moment. “I’m sure Dad and Cora would be happy to put you up, and if not, you can stay in the loft. I can spend a few days with Avery.” He glanced at me. I nodded.

  “Thanks,” Steve said, “I’ll do that, although I won’t kick you out of your home. If Cora and Ben won’t have me, I’ll rent a room somewhere. At a B&B or something. There’s a nice one right there, a block or so away, right?”

  Kate smiled. Indeed there was.

  Steve went to settle his bill and put his suitcase, champagne, and Godiva in the car, and Derek and I, Kate and Wayne ended up facing each other in the parking lot.

  “What now?” I asked.

  Derek shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what to do. I was so sure this would be it. I thought we’d find them spooning under the comforter. I’m not sure what to do next.”

  I nodded sympathetically. His worry was contagious, heavy, and we all felt it. He was right—we’d held out some hope of finding Bea alive with Steve . . . and now? We both needed something to distract us, I thought, something to keep our minds from returning over and over to a worst-case scenario. Glancing at Kate, I suddenly thought of the perfect thing.

  Not a good time to suggest that we do some spooning ourselves, I calculated. Usually it makes for a very effective distraction, but now wasn’t the time. I had to come up with something else instead. Something to take his mind off Beatrice for a while.

  “Isn’t this where Helen Ritter lives? The woman you bought the B&B from? She went to an old folks’ home somewhere. Wasn’t it in Brunswick?”

  “I think so,” Kate said.

  “Do you think we could stop and talk to her? Or ask if she’ll talk to us? We’re here anyway; it seems a shame not to try.”

  “Never hurts to ask,” Derek agreed. “Assuming we can locate her.” He turned away.

  I looked at Kate. “Can you remember where she ended up going? The name of the place, the address, anything?”

  “She did give me a forwarding address,” Kate said. “Just in case the post office made a mistake and some of her mail was delivered to me. Let me think.”

  “I’m gonna call home,” Derek said. “Tell Cora and Dad that Steve’s on his way. Maybe they’ve heard something.”

  “Sure.” I left them both to it and turned to Wayne. “Thanks for letting us crash your party.”

  “You’re welcome. Don’t get in the habit of ambulance chasing, though.”

  “I won’t,” I said, grinning. “If it was your sister and brother-in-law, you’d want to see for yourself though, wouldn’t you?”

  Wayne allowed that he would. I lowered my voice. “So do you think there’s a connection between Gerard’s death and Bea’s disappearance? You don’t think she killed him, do you?”

  “I’d hate to think so,” Wayne answered carefully, “but I can’t rule it out. It’s more likely that someone else did, though, and then realized that Beatrice might know something about it. So they took her, too.”

  I lowered my voice another notch. “So do you think she’s dead, too?”

  Wayne hesitated. “Like I told you just after you came to Waterfield, most people who disappear without a trace show up sooner or later. One way or the other. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “Right.” I grimaced and turned back to Kate. “Have you remembered something?”

  Kate smiled triumphantly. “The place is called Green Acres. Like the old TV show. It’s on Church.”

  “Great. Derek probably has a good idea where that is. Do you want to come?”

  Kate shook her head. “I’ll go back to Waterfield with Wayne. Let me know what she says tomorrow.”

  I promised I would. And then I addressed Wayne when I thought of something. “Apparently Reece Tolliver is bringing in the cadaver dog from Augusta tomorrow to see if it can smell anything in any of the Cortinos’ cars. Or the shop. Do you think you could ask them to sniff around Clovercroft, too? Just in case?”

  “Of course,” Wayne nodded, just as Derek shut off his cell phone and came back to us.

  “Any news?” Kate asked sympathetically.

  He shook his head. “Dad and Cora will be happy to take care of Steve. There’s no news other than that.”

  “We’ll find her,” I said, although I had no idea whether we would or not. But the alternative was really no
t acceptable, so I had to keep on believing Beatrice was safe and sound somewhere. Even if she had killed Gerard and would end up in jail, that would be preferable to having her be dead.

  “I hope so, Tinkerbell.” Voice strained, Derek pulled me into a tight embrace, resting his cheek against my hair. I could feel the tension radiating from him and knew he wouldn’t be able to relax or know peace until we’d found Beatrice, one way or the other. Over his shoulder, I saw Wayne and Kate exchange a look and quietly remove themselves to the police cruiser parked a few spaces away.

  19

  The assisted-living facility where Mrs. Lawrence Ritter III lived was located on a couple of acres of snow-covered ground north of town. It took us about ten minutes to find it, and another few to talk our way past the front desk and into the room. A few minutes after walking into the building, we were knocking on the door of Helen Simmons Ritter’s room.

  “Come in.” The voice was wavery and weak, and the woman it belonged to huddled in a wheelchair with a blanket over her legs and another across her shoulders, though the room was far from cold. Her eyes were sharp, though, and when I had explained who we were and what we doing there, she seemed to know exactly what I was talking about. “Of course.”

  “You remember her?”

  Mrs. Ritter shook her head. “Oh, no. I never met my mother-in-law.”

  “You didn’t?” That was disappointing.

  “She died in childbirth. Larry was brought up by his grandmother.”

  “Really? ”

  “Oh, yes.” Mrs. Ritter nodded vigorously. Or as vigorously as a frail ninety-year-old woman in a wheelchair can nod. “And of course his father died before Larry was born, so I never met either of my parents-in-law. Larry and I didn’t meet until 1941. We got married in ’42, and then he went to France.” A shadow passed over her face.

  “But he came back,” Derek said gently.

  She nodded. “Oh, yes. And we had many wonderful years together after that. The Lord did not see fit to bless us with any children, but we had a good life.”

  I smiled politely. I was happy for her, of course, but I wanted to know about Emily and Lawrence—mostly Emily.

  Mrs. Ritter fumbled in her bedside drawer, among tissues, magazines, and other debris. “This is our wedding photograph.” She handed me a framed photo, black and white. It seemed to be my week for looking at wedding pictures.

  Derek and I put our heads together over it. Like every other bride I’d seen recently, the young Helen Simmons looked deliriously happy. She was wearing a smart little 1940s suit, with a neat little hat on her dark hair, and she was clinging to the arm of her tall husband. He was in uniform, so they must have gotten married just before—and I do mean just before—he shipped out.

  Larry took after his mother in appearance. Fair hair, blue eyes—at least I assumed they were blue—and a sweet smile. There was nothing of Lawrence Ritter’s pugnacious look about him, and also nothing of Anna Virginia’s snootiness. He looked like a nice, friendly young man. He looked—I blinked—familiar.

  “His father died at sea,” Mrs. Ritter explained, and I listened with half an ear as she told us the same story I’d heard from Miss Barnes at the Historical Society, about the sinking of SC-209 in August 1918.

  Derek listened avidly. He must have heard the story before, too, but Mrs. Ritter had his full attention. I devoted mine to the photograph.

  The Ritters must have gotten married at the courthouse; at least I thought I recognized the stairs they were standing on. Helen had been a sturdy, blooming kind of girl back then—nothing at all like the willowy Emily a generation earlier. I’d give a lot to take a look at her wedding photo. But in any case, it was amazing (and quite a little disconcerting) to see the difference time had wrought.

  “. . . to prison,” Mrs. Ritter said, and I sat up with a start.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, if my mother-in-law hadn’t died in childbirth, she would have been sent back to reformatory after Larry was born.”

  “Emily was in prison?”

  Mrs. Ritter nodded. “For murder.”

  Derek and I exchanged a look. “Whose murder?” he asked.

  “I have it here.” She dug through the things in the bedside drawer. “Larry went back to look for it after he was grown. Wanted to know what happened to his mother, since no one would talk about her. And this is what he found.”

  She handed me a clipping—not a copy: an actual clipping, yellowed and brittle—from the Waterfi eld Clarion, from September 4, 1918. Tragedy strikes local family again, the heading said, and the article was about the sinking of the SC-209, with a list of the many dead and the few survivors. By then, almost a week later, they must have gotten an accurate tally of exactly what had happened, and to whom. Larry’s father Lawrence was mentioned, of course, among the dead, and the article ended with the sentences This devastating news comes just a month after the conviction of Emily Ritter for murder. Mrs. Ritter was found guilty of feeding William A. Ellis of 34 Chandler Street a concoction of strychnine, thus causing his death. She is serving her sentence in the Massachusetts Reformatory for Women in Framingham, Mass., the great state of Maine lacking a facility for the purpose of adequately caring for the female criminal.

  “Wow,” I said. “Can I make a copy of this?”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Ritter said, flapping a blue-veined hand. “There’s a copy machine at the reception desk. You know, young man, you remind me of my husband.”

  She smiled at Derek, her teeth too white and even to be her own. He smiled back and patted her hand. I left them to their mutual admiration and headed down the hall to make a copy of the article. For good measure, I brought the wedding picture, too. The grainy Xerox copy I got wasn’t much to look at, but it was better than nothing. When I took the photograph of William and Emily to the photographer on Main Street tomorrow—since I’d forgotten to do it today in all the hoopla of finding out about Peter’s criminal past and Steve’s presence in Brunswick—I’d ask if they had a copy of the Ritters’ wedding picture. Both sets of Ritters: Emily and Lawrence Junior and Helen and Larry. If Lowry’s had taken it—and they’d been in business long enough—maybe they had a negative sitting around.

  We left shortly after that, driving back to Waterfield mostly in silence. It had been a busy day, with a whole lot of things happening, and I think we both were a little overwhelmed.

  “You want to come in?” I asked when Derek pulled to a stop outside Aunt Inga’s house. Some closeness and togetherness might give us both comfort, but I doubted he was in the mood, and I wasn’t sure I was, either. Derek looked exhausted, his face drawn, those pretty, blue eyes shadowed with worry. Over Beatrice—where she was and what was happening to her; over Cora, if Beatrice didn’t come back; and over Jill, if the police decided to charge Peter with murder. And now, over the fact that his great-great-uncle had been murdered by Paige’s aunt or cousin several times removed. It was in the past, mostly forgotten, but must still be a shock.

  He gave me a tired smile. “I don’t think so, Avery. Not tonight.”

  I nodded sympathetically. “You look like you could use a good night’s sleep.”

  “I could, but that’s not it. I want to head over to Dad and Cora’s. See if there’s any news. Make sure that Steve is getting settled in OK. See if there’s anything I can do.”

  “I can come with you,” I offered.

  “Thanks, but it’s not necessary. There’s no need for you to spend another miserable few hours watching Cora turn herself inside out with worry. You’ve got your own family in town; you need to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for your mom in the morning.”

  “Not just for Mom. I want to be at Cortino’s tomorrow, when Hans and Daphne do their sniffing.”

  “Damn. I’d forgotten about that.” He closed his eyes for a second; I studied the dark circles under them and the sweep of long lashes against his cheeks. “Yeah, I need to be there, too. Just in case Jill needs me.”

  “You know,” I said, “I know you’re happy doing what you’re doing, and I’m not saying you need to stop, but the m
edical profession lost a great doctor when you decided to drop out of medicine. Your bedside manner is excellent.”

  He flashed a tired grin. “Is that another attempt at getting me to come inside? Because if so, I think you’re gonna be disappointed. My bedside manner’s too tired tonight.”

  I shook my head. “I’m just saying that you’re a nice guy. You care about people.”

  “Most people are easy to care about. Especially when there’s so much bad news going around.” He put the truck in gear. “I’ll pick you up in the morning, OK? We’ll go to Cortino’s together.”

  I nodded, sliding out of the car. “Sleep well.”

  “Oh, once I get to lie down, I’ll sleep like a baby. No worries.”

  “Right,” I said. “See you.”

  He drove away, while I let myself in through the gate and walked up the path to the front door. Slowly. I was tired, too. I had done a whole lot of running around today, cramming a lot of new information into my head, and both my brain and my body were exhausted from all the effort. Up until this afternoon, I had been able to tell myself that Bea was fine, she was with Steve, they were figuring out their differences and getting back together. I no longer had that luxury. Unless Steve was the greatest actor since Olivier, and somehow I doubted that, he truly hadn’t seen Beatrice.

  Where could she be? I wondered as I inserted the key in the lock. Had she left of her own free will because she had murdered Gerard and didn’t want to get arrested? Was he blackmailing her, threatening to show Steve that picture we’d found? Did he have others? Had she packed up his things and gone somewhere to get rid of them, and something had happened to her? Had she fallen and broken her leg and died of hypothermia, or stumbled off the edge of the cliffs and been swept out to sea? Or had someone else helped her? Although Gerard had been no Mr. Universe, he would have outweighed her by at least fifty or sixty pounds. How had she managed to get his body up the stairs to the carriage house loft by herself? If he had died in the office, or in the apartment above, she might have managed to roll or drag him out to his car. I pictured the body rolling down the narrow stairs from the Clovercroft model home, and grimaced. She might even have managed to roll or drag him into the carriage house. But how had she gotten him up those steep steps to the loft on her own? And if it had happened this way, why hadn’t the body shown some sign of it? I’d seen it, and Gerard’s suit had been pristine.

 

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