She shook her head again. “No. I’ve racked my brain, but I give away so much! There’s always someone coming by for collections. Plus I give my housekeeper, Mrs. Jennings, a lot of things as well.”
“Did you give her the scarf?”
“That’s what the police asked me but I just don’t remember. Like I said, I give a lot away, both my things and Jasper’s.”
“Have the police questioned you about Jasper and Violet?”
She dissolved into tears again and I pushed the box of tissue closer to her elbow. “It’s awful. I went over and over it. I went for my walk and got home around eight. Mrs. Jennings was still there when I got back.”
“Did you see anyone at all when you went out for your walk? Anyone who can vouch for you?”
She stopped crying and gazed at me with big, frightened eyes. “I can’t say.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I can’t say!” she cried out. “I’m sorry, Elspeth, but please don’t ask me! I can’t say anything. If anyone found out…if the police knew…”
I wondered if all murder suspects looked this guilty. “Nora,” I said gently. “This is your life we’re talking about. Your freedom. If you saw someone or talked to someone and have an alibi for Jasper’s death...”
“That’s just it, I don’t! At least, I don’t think I do. It’s all such a mess.”
I gave up for the moment and tried a new tack. “Did you hear anything when you got back to Black Birches? See anything?”
“I saw Violet’s bicycle.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“No, it was too dark.”
There was no delicate way to ask, so I just asked. “Do you know how much you inherit under the terms of Jasper’s will?”
“Three million dollars.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
Her face crumpled. “I know! But I don’t want it. Not this way, Elspeth, I don’t want blood money.”
“Does anyone else inherit?”
She looked up guiltily. “Alex gets a half million and a share in future royalties from Jasper’s books.”
“That was very generous of Jasper.”
She nodded. “Poor Jasper. I feel so guilty. I should’ve been a better wife. I should’ve done more…listened more…”
I suppressed a snort. If Nora kept this up Jasper would achieve sainthood before she went to prison. “Did the police ask you about the murder weapon?”
“Yes. I don’t know anything about any dagger. Alex is the one who…” She stopped suddenly and put her hands over her mouth.
“The police already know that Alex collects antique weapons,” I said. “You’re not giving away any big secrets.”
Nora put her head in her hands. “The police can’t suspect Alex! He’s the sweetest, kindest man in the world. If you only knew how nice he’d been to me since Jasper and I got married…how thoughtful…” her voice trailed away and I looked at her with renewed interest.
“Did you see Alex Ware when you took your walk?”
A stubborn expression descended over Nora’s usually placid features. “No! I told you, I didn’t see anyone.”
I gave up. “The police think Violet was murdered in Jasper’s studio and her body was moved after death. Do you know who had access to the studio?”
“Jasper, of course, and I assume Violet had a key. I have a key and Alex has a key.”
“Anyone else?”
Nora shook her head. “I guess Mrs. Jennings might have a key. She and her niece clean the studio sometimes.”
“Do you know anyone who might’ve had a motive for killing both Violet and Jasper?”
“No, no one. I already told Jasper he could have his divorce if he wanted it. I didn’t want him trapped in an unhappy marriage. I loved Jasper; I just wanted him to be happy.”
“Did you talk to a lawyer about giving Jasper a divorce?”
“No, I didn’t have time to get one before…before this…” She stopped crying and hiccupped a little. She leaned forward and I did the same. “Can you do me a favor, Betts?” she whispered.
I had a sudden vision of a file baked inside a cake. “What?”
“Can you go to the bank for me?”
“I could,” I said cautiously, “but why do you need money right now?”
She shook her head. “It’s not money. Jasper had a safety deposit box. It’s in both our names. There might be something in there that would explain why he and Violet were murdered. Can you please go look?”
“Where’s the key?”
“It’s at the house. I’ll call Mrs. Jennings to leave it in the mailbox for you. All you have to do is drive out to Black Birches and get it and then go to the bank.”
It sounded easy enough.
I should’ve known nothing about this case would be easy.
Chapter 10
The All Hallows Community Bank was one of the oldest buildings in the village. The brick, three-story structure stood at the corner of Paul Revere Lane and English Street, and was the most important institution in All Hallows apart from the Old Dutch Church and the bingo hall.
The manager of the bank, Marshall Spright, came out to greet me. He looked the part of the jovial businessman, with his thick blue tie and walrus moustache.
“Ms. Gray, it’s nice to see you again!” he said smoothly. “My wife is hard at work on the next chapter of her book.”
I suppressed a shudder. Bootsie’s erotica always made me feel sorry for Marshall, and I looked uncomfortably at his large, white hands.
“I’m here on business,” I said determinedly. “I have a note signed by Nora Ware that grants me permission to open Jasper Ware’s safety deposit box.”
The note had been my idea. Although I quit law school after my second year, I’d acquired a smattering of official knowledge about things like wills, trusts and contracts. I knew just enough to be dangerous.
Marshall lost an infinitesimal amount of his beaming congeniality. “Let’s see it.”
I handed him the paper and he studied it a few moments and then shrugged. “It looks like it’s in order, but I’m afraid Chief Liddell already called and told me the Ware safety deposit box might contain material evidence. He instructed me to secure it until he gets here.”
I observed him for a few seconds and then sent a quick prayer for forgiveness to the patron saint of writers for what I was about to do.
“You know, Marshall, Bootsie is a very talented writer.”
Marshall beamed. “I’ve always thought so.”
“Unfortunately, talent sometimes just isn’t enough in the publishing business. Sometimes, it all comes down to who you know.”
He regarded me carefully. “I’m listening.”
“Well, I was thinking I might refer Bootsie to my agent. It’s always easier for new writers if they have a personal referral.”
Marshall’s mustache stretched into a large grin. “That would be very generous of you. Bootsie would be thrilled and it would get me out of the doghouse for not attending your book reading with her. Sorry about that, by the way. I, um…had to work.”
“No problem. As I was saying, I’d love to help Bootsie, but I’m just so busy with this murder investigation. If only I had access to some more information, some official paperwork that might hold some clues or something…”
I let my suggestion hang in the air as Marshall and I observed one another warily, like two cats sniffing the same bush.
Marshall spread his hands open in appeal. “Well, now, Chief Liddell told me to keep an eye on the box.” He looked around and lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “But he didn’t tell me I couldn’t open it. As long as you don’t take anything out, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you taking a quick peek.”
I smiled. “No problem, everything stays here at the bank.”
“Fine, so long as we understand each other.”
We shook hands solemnly and then Marshall led me to the massive safe at the back of the bank. He emerged a few minutes later carrying a small iron box.
“You can view the contents in here.”
He pointed towards an alcove screened off by a heavy red curtain. I stepped inside and pulled the drape closed. The key was in my purse and my hands were shaking as I pulled it out. I felt like I was in a Bruckheimer movie as I fit the key in the lock.
I wasn’t disappointed. Inside the box lay a snub-nosed revolver.
I’m not a gun person. I suppose I’d use a firearm under duress, but since I lived in All Hallows the situation was unlikely to arise. I peered down at the weapon. I’d never been this close to a firearm before and tried not to panic. Was it loaded? Would it go off if I touched it? Was New York a gun-carrying state? I tried to remember my constitutional law class but all I came up with was an image of George Washington dressed in tights. It wasn’t helpful.
I gingerly pushed the gun aside and picked up the thick manila envelope lying underneath. It was bulky and as I opened it some pages slid to the floor. I picked them up and scanned them eagerly.
It was a manuscript. The front page had the title, The Killing House Rules. It was another Jasper Ware/Chief Grimaldi mystery, and I read through one of the pages.
I sat down at the scarred kitchen table and poured myself two generous fingers of scotch. I was still three-quarters sober, barely, and glanced impatiently up at the clock. She was late. She should’ve been here by now if she was coming at all. The pounding in my head was like a freight train, and I poured another drink. Part of me wanted her there and part of me wanted to forget the whole crazy mess.
The rain drummed on the roof and the air wafted in through the window, thick and wet. The soft heat made me lick the sweat off my top lip and loosen my tie. I lit a cigarette and felt for the revolver in the right-hand pocket of my jacket. She’d asked me if I’d named it. I told her if she played her cards right she could do it for me.
The doorbell rang and I put down the bottle. As I stood up, I realized my head wasn’t the only thing that was throbbing.
I wanted her alive almost as much as I wanted her dead.
I carefully set the manuscript aside. I supposed it was the next bestseller Jasper had referred to at the book reading, and I was surprised to note his writing style had improved. When I’d read Deadly Harbor I’d thought it was rather dry for a gritty, tough-knuckled noir, but this was more like it. I wondered what it was doing at the bank instead of his studio. The rest of the box contained no other surprises other than Jasper’s life insurance policy. I raised a brow. A million more reasons for Nora to kill Jasper. I was about to return everything to the box when I noticed a scrap of paper stuck to the bottom. It appeared to have been torn from the pages of a tablet notebook and was covered in a large, childlike scrawl.
Mr. Bestseller Jasper Ware: I know all about you and your last four books, you old hack! If you want to keep your secret safe, put five thousand in small bills in a white envelope and tape it under the last pew on the right at St. Anne’s church. Do it Monday and don’t go back to check! One word to anyone and the jig is up! I bet you like being on the Times Bestseller List, don’t you Mr. Big Shot Writer? You better pay up or you won’t see your name there ever again.
The letter was unsigned.
I opened my bag and copied the letter down in my own notebook, and then put everything back into the box. There was a discreet cough from outside and as I opened the curtain I wasn’t surprised to see Marshall Spright still standing there.
“All done.” I handed him the box.
“Excellent,” he said smoothly. “I’ll just put this back before anyone even realizes it’s gone.” His gaze shifted back to me and his expression sharpened. “Bootsie will be thrilled when I tell her about meeting your agent.”
I smiled weakly and wondered what I would have to do for Paula to apologize. Chocolates, maybe? Knowing Paula more drastic measures would be required, probably dinner with Thomas Keller.
“It’s my pleasure, Marshall.”
“Well then, I guess we’ll see you at the Bracebridge Festival,” he said cheerily. “We’re looking forward to the pie contest!”
I smiled again and followed him back into the lobby.
I was feeling reasonably upbeat as I drove back to my house. I had solid evidence of blackmail, always a good motive for murder, and the prospect of a pie contest tends to have an uplifting effect on the psyche.
I should’ve known my good mood couldn’t last. I came plummeting down to earth as I pulled into the driveway and saw my ex-husband, Grant, leaning up against his car.
Chapter 11
Ex-husbands figured predominantly in my books. They were egocentric, manipulative and devilishly handsome. They made very good villains.
Grant was a good villain.
Grant had been one of the ‘good’ bad boys at law school; the kind who drove a motorcycle and downed endless pints of beer while remaining on the law review and graduating magna cum laude. He swept me off my feet with his firm lips and blueberry-blue eyes and cotton polos. He was so handsome I couldn’t believe any woman could look at him and not fall madly in love. We got married a few months later and were happy for almost three years.
That’s when I caught him with Becky Stockton.
The divorce process itself was relatively painless since there were no children, and I was given the choice between the house we shared in Albany or the summer cottage in All Hallows. I chose the latter and began a new life for myself in the country.
I really had no desire to see Grant again, so wasn’t prepared for his sudden appearance in my driveway. He was leaning against the driver’s side, wearing a pair of Aviators and those jeans that could still make my heart race a bit. He moved to kiss my cheek, but I dodged at the last minute and he got a mouthful of hair. I was glad I hadn’t washed it that morning.
“Hello, Betts, you’re looking as stunning as ever.”
“Thanks. What do you want?”
He managed to look hurt. He was still handsome, and as I took in his chestnut hair and finely molded lower lip I felt the old pang in my chest. Better make the interview short.
“I wanted to see you, Betts. There’s something I have to talk to you about.”
“Talk.”
“Please, it’s important.”
I sighed and motioned towards the kitchen door. “Let’s go inside.”
He followed me through and I turned on the coffeepot. He glanced around the warm gold walls and colorfully painted pottery. “The place really looks great, Betts, you were always clever with decorating.”
I raised a brow. Really? We were going to talk about my knack for decorating?
“What do you want, Grant?” I asked again.
He reached out a hand to pet Blue, who curled around his legs like a rub-grubbing traitor and then looked back up at me.
“I’m getting remarried.”
They say there’s a spot on your neck where if someone hits you at just the right angle you can be paralyzed for life. I was pretty sure Grant had found that spot as I collapsed into a chair.
“Married? Why?” Before he could answer I plunged ahead. “You aren’t good at marriage, Grant. You’re a disaster. You’re a Titanic of marital folly…a Hindenburg of wedded recklessness…an Exxon Valdez of conjugal madness…”
“Now, Betts,” he said soothingly. “Don’t get yourself worked up. Our marriage was like oil and water.”
“Our marriage would have been fine if you hadn’t screwed around.”
He ran a hand through his thick hair. “I told you, that was all a misunderstanding.”
“Really? What part did I misunderstand? The part where you and Becky Stockton were rolling around on your de
sk or the part where her tongue was rammed down your throat?”
“She kissed me!”
“You kissed her back.”
“Look, it was a really bad time for us. I know how upset you were about the baby…”
I held up my hand. “Are you blaming me?” I asked quietly.
“I’m not blaming at all! I’m just saying I’m sorry… about everything. I’m sorry about Becky and the baby…” His expression softened. “I’m really sorry about the baby, Betts.”
I felt tears gather somewhere and a hard lump in my throat.
The baby…
… my baby.
I cleared my throat. “Who is she?”
“Who?”
“Your fiancée, your beloved, your betrothed…”
He looked relieved. “Oh, right. Her name’s Ainsley Adams. She’s a reporter for the Albany Sun. You’re going to love her, Betts.”
Men always said crap like that. I went over and put away the coffee mugs. We would not be having coffee.
“I’m not going to love her, because I’m never going to meet her. And Ainsley is a surname by the way.”
“Oh yes, you’ll meet her,” Grant said confidently. “She’s here in All Hallows.”
“Why?”
“Your town is big news. There’ve been two murders here, and Ainsley’s been assigned to do a special report on violence in the sticks.”
I got up and opened the kitchen door. “Good for her. I’m sure she’ll break the case wide open. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for the Bracebridge Festival.”
Grant looked hurt, but I managed to push him out the door and leaned my forehead against the cool glass.
I didn’t have time to deal with Grant.
I had thirty pies to judge.
Chapter 12
When I first moved to All Hallows I had the misguided notion that since I lived in the country I should know how to cook. This idea was reinforced by my agent, Paula, who told me readers expected the ‘Queen of Dessert Romances’ to be able to at least make chocolate chip cookies without involvement of the local fire department. What they didn’t expect, she said, was a lactose intolerant divorcée in her late thirties who was lousy in the kitchen.
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