Death of an English Muffin

by Victoria Hamilton

  “She probably went out for a cigarette. She never could give up that filthy habit,” Vanessa said. “It was supposedly a secret, but after every meal and sometimes just when she needed a moment alone she’d slip out with her purse, carrying her cigarettes. She bought some kind of expensive cigarette that she said would never kill her.”

  “Turned out she was right about that,” I said grimly. “It didn’t have the chance.”

  Barbara sat motionless, watching us all. Her gaze swiveled to me, and she stared with alarm. “I can’t help but think you’re trying to get at something, Merry. What exactly are you trying to say or ask?”

  I watched her as I said, “I’m trying to pinpoint both who knew Cleta would leave the room the moment she had a chance to have a smoke, and who was absent about the same time. Like . . . you. You left the room right after Cleta did.” That was a point of contention.

  “No, that’s not true!” she protested. “We had been playing euchre five-handed, but I wasn’t feeling well and left the table. I told them to play on four-handed.” She glanced around the table. “You must have seen me. I came back, sat down, and resumed play just as Cleta was leaving the dining room.”

  “That’s true,” Lush said. “I remember now! You needed to push one of our chairs aside to get through, and Cleta, who had paused by me to complain about being roped in as faro banker, made some kind of crack as she was leaving, about . . .” Her sagging cheeks pinkened. “I’m sorry, Babs, dearest; it was rude, and I wasn’t sad to see her leave.”

  Pish, looking stunned, said, “And that’s when Patsy left, too, almost following her, but not quite.” He met my gaze. “After Patsy left, so did one other person.” He turned in his chair and stared at the woman to my right. “Vanessa, Patsy was gone for a moment, and then you got up and left the room, too. I can’t think why I didn’t remember before, but I just thought both statements you gave were true, that you came back to your seat, then left again after Cleta departed the room. Where did you go?”

  The woman was an actress, and really much better than her B-movie roles would indicate. She looked puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean, Pishie, darling.”

  Virgil spoke up for the first time. “Madam LaDuchesse, perhaps you need a reminder. In your formal statement you told us that you came back to your seat just before Cleta left the room and didn’t get up again. When we spoke after the incident, with the medical examiner, you claimed to be just sitting down when Cleta made a remark about the faro game. But these folks are saying that’s not true, that it was Mrs. Beakman who came back just as Miss Sanson was leaving. You actually left just after she left the room.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. She nodded. “It’s true. I’ve been trying to hide it, but I have to tell you all the truth about . . . about what happened.”

  It was as if the entire dinner group sucked in a breath and held it; the room felt airless, my cheeks flushed with blood, and I got dizzy. She was going to say it. She was going to tell the truth.

  “I did leave the dining room. I was going to go to the washroom, but Patsy came from that direction. She told me the door was locked, so someone must be in there. I didn’t even bother trying. I lingered for a moment, but when no one came out I went up to my own bathroom and then came back to the game.”

  My turn. Watching her face carefully, I said, “Well, that isn’t true at all. I know that because I know that Patsy and Lauda both were in your room.” Lauda I was guessing at, but Patsy I knew of for sure.

  Lauda had turned pale but didn’t protest. Vanessa didn’t say a thing, and I could see that she knew she had misstepped. She had overcomplicated her remarks and didn’t know which way to go.

  “Cleta once hinted to me that there was something in your past, something unsavory,” Lush said. “Someday she’d tell us all, she said. What was it, Vanessa?”

  “I’ll tell you all what it is,” I said, then turned to watch Vanessa’s face. “When you were just nineteen you lived with a wealthy older woman who willed everything to you, as long as you stayed with her.” I paused, waiting for a protest, but she said nothing. “But it was the 1950s, and you were ambitious. She adored you, but you saw a trap. How would you explain her to the movie directors and the press, if you made it as big as you planned? They’d expect you to be seen with men, and you weren’t averse to that. You didn’t start out wanting to be a noir B-movie vixen. You saw yourself as Elizabeth Taylor.” I paused, and my voice clogged with emotion as I said, “So for financial and career reasons, your lover had to go.”

  Vanessa’s expression became grim. I felt like the veneer was about to crack; one more good blow.

  “I saw the photo in your room, Vanessa. There was that one in the collage on your wall; the poor woman gazed at you with such adoration. It was plain in her eyes.” I felt so sorry for that long-ago woman who fell in love with a girl who didn’t have a heart to give back.

  “You’re making this all up,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. She was strained, her mouth tight, wrinkles gathering around it like a purse string.

  “It was in the news, as the murders of rich people often are. Did you know, most newspapers have archives with all their old articles? You can buy an old article from the New York Times for something like four dollars. You were on vacation in the Caribbean, a little out-of-the-way spot with no extradition treaty with the United States. Just in case.” I watched Vanessa, but she didn’t look at me. Instead she picked up a linen napkin and twisted it in her hands, wringing and wringing, like throttling a little yellow bird.

  No one said a word. All I could hear was the hushed murmur of breathing. “You convinced her to take you on vacation, engineered some kind of fight in the lobby, and said you were leaving. But before you did, you followed her back to the room and smothered her,” I said, my voice shaking. “Then you made it look like a room break-in. You flew back to New York. The island police had their suspicions—you were seen with scratches on your arms, hurrying through the lobby—but they couldn’t prove anything, and once you were in the U.S. you were safe, even if they had wanted to charge you.”

  Lush was softly sobbing and murmured, “How awful!”

  I looked over at Virgil, then back to Vanessa. “The crime is still listed as unsolved. You took your inheritance, moved to California, changed your name, and got into movies. Then you went to Europe, married a wealthy count who wanted a wife and then ex-wife to cover for his own preferences, and divorced him, getting even wealthier in the process and leaving behind forever the girl who was once just plain, dirt-poor Vanity Slacum, from Mount Airy, North Carolina.”

  Her handsome face looked ravaged and her breathing was ragged and irregular, but I was unmoved by pity. She killed Cleta Sanson and then tried to murder poor poverty-stricken Patsy Schwartz, who had the nerve to steal from Cleta’s room the letter that Vanessa had written to Cleta many years ago, trying to take back a drunken confession. Patsy had intended to continue for profit the blackmail that Cleta had started out of amusement. I felt sure that Patsy had tried it at least once, and that was why she had the welt on her arm—Vanessa was stronger than she looked, and had likely grabbed her; supposition on my part, but well grounded—and that is also why Patsy invited her daughter to come stay, to protect herself. The night of Patsy’s fall Vanessa must have lured her out with the promise of settling up with money. One push was supposed to end it all, but Patsy didn’t die.

  Cleta Sanson had never needed the money; she’d just enjoyed watching Vanessa squirm. She had underestimated Vanessa, though.

  Virgil was tensed and waiting, silent, as was everyone. Lush was stifling sobs, Lauda was wide-eyed, but Barbara was regarding Vanessa with interest. “I thought Patsy had made up the whole story,” she said. “But she was right about it all. What a play this would make for the stage!”

  We weren’t done yet, I thought. We didn’t have a confession. “When this plan to move to Wynter C
astle came up you saw the opening, a chance to live alongside Cleta to give you time and opportunity to plan her demise,” I said softly. “All the previous attempts you had managed to blame on Lauda. So you were the one who told Cleta about it initially, telling her it would be a great way to evade Lauda. Cleta did the rest, as you knew she would, pressuring and guilting the others into all inviting her, so each would think she was the one responsible for Cleta coming along to spoil everyone’s peace of mind. But it was you all along who planted the seed.”

  Tears ran down her cheeks, gathering makeup and creating pale trails on the wasted remains of a beautiful face. Her shoulders sagged, the ramrod posture gone, like a rag doll with all the stuffing beaten out of it. She nodded and then looked over at Virgil. “You’re waiting for my confession. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve seen the letter, Vanessa. The police have it now, and they can match your handwriting, you know.” I wasn’t sure she’d even remember exactly what was in the letter. It wasn’t completely a confession, after all, and a good defense lawyer would laugh at it. She made a decision. I watched her demeanor transform, then, her posture return, her expression one of suffering.

  “I’ll tell you the story of a young, stupid girl, a woman who loved her, the girl’s betrayal of her trust, and the guilt that plagued her for the rest of her life. Poor Annie,” she whispered. “She did love me. She’s probably the only person who saw what I was when I first came to New York—a country bumpkin—and loved me anyway. I did what I did for my sister Faith! I wanted her to come to New York and marry into money, but instead she betrayed me to stay in the hills, get pregnant, and marry some dumb miner. They all turned their backs on me, the whole clan.”

  “Did they know what you did for them?” I asked gently.

  “I think they knew, or at least they suspected. Even Faith wouldn’t talk to me. She said I’d changed.”

  She met my eyes, and I was chilled.

  “She was wrong. I hadn’t changed,” she said. “Not one little bit.”

  Virgil made a minuscule movement, but I put up one hand. Vanessa wasn’t done. “How did Cleta find out?”

  “I met her in England, right around when I was marrying Nigel. I think she knew there was something wrong, something I’d done. She loved secrets. Despicable woman! At the time I thought she was fun: witty, acerbic, so very acidic! And she cultivated me; I see that now. Flattered me, groomed me, got me drunk, and pried it out of me. When I remembered the next day what I’d said—it was kind of a jumble in my brain, but I believe I told her all—I wrote her a note trying to take it back. Too late I realized all it did was give her evidence. By then I cared what people thought of me.”

  She looked around the table, and maybe for the first time she saw the faces of her friends, aghast, Lush and Barbara realizing with whom they had been friends all those years. Lauda was frozen, just sitting still, shivering.

  “I would have lost work if anyone suspected what happened!” Vanessa said in an indignant tone. “For fifty years Cleta tortured and victimized me, the pressure mounting, the pain never gone.” Her voice cracked with self-pity. “I held out for as long as I could.” She gathered us all in her spellbinding gaze, scanning the circle. “Finally I did everyone a favor and killed Cleta Sanson.”

  I expected music to swell, drama filled, swooping violins and thrumming cellos. The credits should roll: Diary of a Murderess, starring Vanessa LaDuchesse. She was shaping the story even as she told it, making it into a drama that would no doubt hold the world captive. She was making it seem like she had acted on impulse in the heat of a moment brought on by intolerable pressure. It was her victim’s fault, she implied. But I knew better. Cleta’s murder had taken extended planning and cold calculation.

  Lush rose unsteadily to her feet and pointed across the table. “You vicious harpy! Cleta was bad enough, but how could you do what you did to poor, dear, sweet Patsy, who never hurt anyone?”

  Vanessa turned a contemptuous eye to Lush. “Poor, dear, sweet Patsy was willing to take advantage of Cleta’s death. She tried to use that same damnable letter—which she stole from Cleta’s possessions—to blackmail me. She had lost all her money on stupid real estate purchases and profligate spending, and she thought she could claw her way back into the upper echelons of society with my money. Stupid woman. First she tried to borrow money from Cleta, and after Cleta was gone, she tried to blackmail me.”

  Virgil rose, circling the table to Vanessa. He placed one hand on her shoulder and said, “Mrs. Vanessa LaDuchesse, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Miss Cleta Sanson and the attempted murder of Mrs. Patsy Schwartz.” He then gave her the standard caution.

  But for Vanessa the caution held no charm. Even as Virgil escorted her from the castle, she was talking about how she got into movies, how she slept with the right people, and how she never would have been able to do that had she not freed herself from the love of her first victim. Those of us left behind just looked at one another in dismay.

  And so it ended.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  OF COURSE THERE was an independent witness to Vanessa’s presence in the back hall near the bathroom at the important time. Lauda had indeed “borrowed” the postal truck and snuck into the castle by the back hall when Zeke wasn’t looking. She crept through the kitchen, and when she heard someone coming, she hid herself behind the chairs near the fireplace. She saw Vanessa slip though the kitchen and disappear down the hall.

  At the time she didn’t think anything of it. She was intent on getting up to her aunt’s room to see if there was a holographic will disinheriting her. She was seen, though. That was what Patsy thought she ought to tell someone about. Barbara was worried that Lauda was the killer, which was why she told Patsy to stay out of it.

  It wasn’t until later that Lauda figured out that Vanessa was Cleta’s killer. Lauda confronted the aging actress, she told Virgil, and Vanessa admitted it, but said if Lauda dared tell anyone, Vanessa would claim that Cleta had indeed made a will, but that Lauda had stolen it, killed Cleta, and destroyed the evidence.

  Lauda was in an awful position; if she told the truth, that Vanessa was the murderer, she ran the risk of not being believed. If Vanessa then told her trumped-up story, Lauda could lose her freedom and her new wealth. If she just kept quiet, she inherited. She stayed silent but got more and more frightened and upset; she had loved her ungrateful aunt, and it horrified her that the murder would go unpunished. That was what the confrontation was about, the one that happened just before Lauda stomped through the great hall shoving me aside. Lauda swore she found no new will, and with no evidence to the contrary, there was nothing to prevent her from inheriting.

  On a gorgeous sunny day three weeks after the fateful dinner, I helped a weak but happy Patsy Schwartz—who had been nursed back to better shape by her sweet daughter Pattycakes—into a rental car that Gordy would drive. He was going on a big adventure to the city, with Patsy and Barbara Beakman as his passengers. Barbara had sent word on ahead to open up the condo, and Gordy was going to stay three days in New York City as their guest, and then come back to Autumn Vale. Patsy would live with Barbara from then on.

  Neither would be lonely, and both would have someone to take care of. Patsy’s financial situation was indeed dire, her wealth long gone on bad investments, unscrupulous money managers, and profligate spending, but what did they need money for? Barbara asked her. Patsy had a pension and the promise of more once her bankruptcy was done. Pattycakes leaned in the car window and kissed her mother good-bye, promising to come to New York for a visit in a couple of weeks.

  Vanessa was in jail awaiting arraignment, but had she been silent? No, in fact, in a weird way I think she was living one of the last chapters of her life in a blaze of ill-gotten glory. Every national media outlet was covering her story. All the entertainment shows had featured her or were about to. A journalist from the
New York Times was doing an in-depth feature on her, as queen of the B-movie noir films of the fifties.

  While she was not allowed to have visitors, she wrote letters and made phone calls, garnering even more attention. I stuffed down the anger as best I could, but I acknowledged that in a sense, Cleta was the author of her own demise. It didn’t make what Vanessa did excusable, especially given her past crime, killing a woman whose only fault was in loving and trusting Vanessa too much, but when you play with tigers, expect to get mauled. Cleta was too sure of herself and enjoyed too much the power she exerted with her collection of secrets.

  And then there was Lauda. Cleta had played her so hard, threatening her every time they had disagreements, that she was worried sick about losing her inheritance. When they spoke in Autumn Vale Cleta had indeed given her the two thousand dollars she had taken out of the bank. It was supposed to pay for Lauda to go back to the city, but she used it to stay in Autumn Vale instead, intent on worming her way back into her aunt’s affections. Vanessa’s failed attempts in New York to kill Cleta—she had copped to those, detailing them to the press, the DA and anyone else who would listen—had driven a wedge between aunt and niece, and by the time Cleta came to the castle it was too late for the truth.

  Lauda went back to New York immediately after Vanessa’s arrest with the keys to Cleta’s condo, which she now owned, according Cleta’s last will and testament and the law firm of Swan Associates, who were hoping she would retain them to do her business. She had been reassured that the body would be cremated by the local funeral home and the ashes shipped to her to sit on her mantelpiece, presumably as a reminder that sometimes the meek really do inherit the earth. Or at least a sizable portion of it.

  Lush had decided to stay with us for now. But then, she was family, not a guest. She made regular trips in to Golden Acres to sit and visit with Doc and Hubert Dread, who competed for her prettily confused attentions.