Murder Actually

by Stephanie McCarthy

  “And in first place, the winner of the All Hallows Annual Pie Contest is Number 27, I Likey-Like Lemon Meringue pie, submitted by Coco Ware.”

  I was surprised. The cool and crisp Coco didn’t look as though she’d ever picked up a rolling pin, let alone concocted a dessert so delicious it made me want to laugh and cry at the same time. I watched as she took her little trophy and held it up so Crispin Wickford could take her picture. She looked flushed and happy, and as the crowd began to disperse I went to congratulate her.

  “That was the best pie I’ve ever eaten, Coco. Can I have your recipe to put in my next book?”

  She flushed and shook her head. “I’m afraid it’s a family secret.”

  There were a lot of those floating around. “Speaking of family,” I said smoothly. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Were you and Jasper close?”

  Something flashed across her features, but it was so fleeting it was gone before I could analyze it. Fear, maybe? Or guilt?

  “He was my brother-in-law for ten years. I assume I got along with him as well as anyone else.”

  Considering everything I knew about Jasper, this wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement. “You never had any problems with him?”

  “Nothing of substance. We really didn’t talk much.” The way she said it made me stop and look at her more closely, but her tight smile gave nothing away.

  I took a gamble on a new tack. “Alex was just telling me that he and Jasper were business partners at Ware Realty.”

  She nodded. “Yes, Jasper bought a controlling interest last year.”

  “Controlling interest? So they weren’t equal partners?”

  “Not in the legal sense, but Jasper let Alex do things his way.”

  “Until recently?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The argument they had at the book reading. I heard Jasper tell Alex he was going to meet with him and go over the account books.”

  Coco laughed but I noticed the look in her eyes didn’t change; she was wary and cautious. “Jasper always said things like that. He liked to throw his weight around, but in the end Alex was running the business.” She looked down at her watch and gave a little exclamation.

  “I had no idea it was getting so late! Will you excuse me, Elspeth? I’m helping with the rummage sale for St. Anne’s.”

  “Of course, thanks again for the pie.”

  I watched as she hurried over to a table overflowing with a motley collection of Christmas ornaments, chipped plastic jewelry and picture frames.

  Julia approached and gave my arm a squeeze. “What’s up, Betts? You look surprisingly perturbed for someone who just got to sample thirty pies.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not sure, but I think there might’ve been something going on between Jasper and Coco.”

  “Pictures, Elspeth!”

  The excited voice of Crispin Wickford cut through my thoughts and he steered me enthusiastically back into the blazing sun. “I need you back up on the dais with Mayor Applebaum.”

  “Please, Crispin,” I groaned. “It’s too hot for pictures and you always get me when I’m scowling. How about you answer some questions instead?”

  He busied himself with his camera. “Sure, Elspeth. I heard you’ve been playing detective.”

  “Did Jasper Ware lend you money to keep the Gazette afloat?”

  Crispin observed me guardedly. “Careful, Elspeth,” he cautioned. “Those are the kinds of questions that can get people in trouble.”

  “People? Or me?”

  He ignored me and I tried a different tack. “Have you ever been to Jasper’s studio?”

  “Yes. I did an interview with him last year for my Out and About column.”

  “Did you notice any work at the studio?”

  Crispin snorted. “Jasper never worked. The man was a hack.”

  “That’s an interesting choice of words.”

  Crispin hands slowed on the camera, and then he resumed his expression of mild-mannered congeniality. “I use the term in the sense that Jasper’s writing was sordid, soulless drivel. What are you getting at, Elspeth? Do you think I killed Jasper? And Violet?” He laughed. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. I didn’t go upstairs during the book reading and I certainly never went near Jasper’s place that night.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  “I have my suspicions.”

  I saw him jerk his head towards the refreshment tent where Sabrina Elliott was standing.

  I shook my head. “It can’t be her, she has an alibi. She and Rose were together at the front of the store both before and after the lights went out.”

  Crispin looked thoughtful. “Well then, I guess she’s learned how to be in two places at once.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw her at the back door just before the lights went out.”

  I stopped and stared at him. “But why would Sabrina kill Jasper? I mean, just because they hated each other wasn’t reason for her to…”

  My voice broke off as he laughed again.

  “Hated each other, huh? As one investigator to another, you might want to check your facts. I overheard Sabrina and Jasper arguing the night of the book reading, and it was a very passionate argument. There’s a lot more goes on in All Hallows then you think.”

  Crispin walked away and I looked after him in surprise. What had he meant by that?

  I glanced around the gardens and knew there was only one way to get more information. “Bootsie!” I called out. “Wait a minute! I have to talk to you.”

  She came running up and grabbed at my arm. “Elspeth! I’ve just had the Best. Idea. Ever! Instead of just calling your agent, why don’t you and I go to the city together? That way we can do lunch, go shopping, get makeovers, visit your agent…”

  I impatiently broke off Bootsie’s agenda. “Sounds great, but I have a few questions I want to ask you about the night of the book reading.”

  She giggled. “I heard you and Julia had turned into sexy super-sleuths! How exciting! Can I join you? We could be just like Charlie’s Angels; only one of us will have to dye her hair red. Can we wear disguises?”

  “Bootsie! Focus. I need you to ask you about the night of the book reading.”

  Bootsie’s little forehead wrinkled in concentration. “It was hot. I remembered thinking I needed some fresh air.

  “Did you notice Sabrina Elliott that night?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t speak to her. Professor Sabrina and I don’t get along. She had the nerve to tell me my writing was an insult to the feminine consciousness! I wanted to tell her that her clothing was an insult to the feminine consciousness. Did you see her? She was a hot mess! First, the champagne spill, and then she had all that blood on her from Rose’s cut. If she had any sense of decency she might’ve gone home and changed. I know if it’d been me…”

  Bootsie stopped suddenly and her eyes widened. She let out a low gasp. “Elspeth! I know what you’re thinking!” The proposition seemed doubtful as Bootsie continued. “You’re thinking that it wasn’t Rose’s blood at all! You’re thinking that Sabrina killed Jasper and that’s why she had blood on her shirt.”

  “I guess it’s possible.”

  “Of course! It’s the perfect cover. And then later Sabrina got rid of her clothes to destroy any evidence!”

  I had to admit, Bootsie’s idea had literary merit if nothing else. “Do you know if there was anything going on between Sabrina and Jasper Ware?”

  She giggled. “Not anymore. You should’ve heard Sabrina talk about him; you would’ve thought he was a cross between Hitler and a political candidate.”

  “Did you see her talking to Jasper that night?”

  “No. I didn’t really see them talking,” Bootsie’s face screwed itself into a look of fierce concentration. “But I did see
something.”

  “What?”

  “Sabrina did something that I thought was a little strange.”

  In Bootsie’s world, this could mean anything.

  “Yes, what was it?”

  “Sabrina was walking by Jasper and she dropped a little piece of paper. Jasper picked it up and read it and then put it in his pocket. Of course, as a writer, I have a knack for details. My mom used to say, Bootsie, you see everything! I guess she was right. I bet Sabrina was telling Jasper to meet her upstairs so she could kill him! Don’t worry, Elspeth, I’ll give some of the credit to you and Julia when I tell Chief Liddell I’ve cracked the case.”

  “Thanks,” I said dryly and opened my handbag. “Bootsie, I have a list of book titles I’d like for you to look at.”

  I handed her a copy of the book titles found by Jasper’s body. “Do they mean anything to you?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never read any of them. I could never get into Dickens, he’s too wordy, and I think I might’ve stayed at that Hotel du Lac once, isn’t it in Poughkeepsie? I read the Case of the Mondays. Self-help books are so interesting, aren’t they? I love finding out more about myself.”

  “Yeah, they’re great, but these titles don’t suggest anything to you?”

  “No, sorry.” She shook her head and handed it back. “Maybe you should ask Sabrina.”

  “Sabrina Elliott?”

  “Yeah, she had that hotel book at her house. I saw it on the coffee table.”

  “When?”

  “Let’s see, it must’ve been a week or so before the book reading. I was there to talk to Rose about the Bracebridge Festival and I noticed the book on the table.”

  Bootsie waved across the field. “There’s Marshall! He promised to buy me a present and if I don’t supervise I’ll end up with something super-creepy from the rummage sale.”

  I watched her scurry away just as the bell at St. Anne’s began to toll. I decided it was tolling for me, so I gathered up my purchases and headed downtown.

  Chapter 13

  I parked in the car park adjacent to the English Street shopping district and walked down the boardwalk. The streets were thick with tourists and the windows lined with colorful blue, green and red awnings. A dark blue car with darkly tinted windows idled past, and I wondered when we’d started getting celebrities in All Hallows. I passed under a signboard featuring a corpulent gentleman in pink frock coat and bearing the name of the establishment, Thrubwell Antiques.

  The bell above the door tinkled as I pushed it open, and a dapper little man with grizzled white hair and fierce blue eyes bounded to the entrance and peered up at me.

  “Good morning, madam. I’m Mr. Thrubwell. Can I help you with something?”

  “I want to buy a writing desk,” I said firmly.

  “Excellent.”

  He beamed for a few seconds, and then motioned for me to follow him to a dim area at the back of the store, crowded with delicate mahogany furniture.

  He turned back to me abruptly. “Now. What are you?”

  I felt like I had fallen down the rabbit hole. “I’m me.”

  “Ah yes, a treasure to humanity! But that doesn’t help me. For instance,” he bounded over and perched himself on the edge of a table. “Are you an eighteenth century American mahogany ladies’ writing desk? Or perhaps you’re a Bonheur-du-jour?”

  I couldn’t tell if I’d just been insulted. You never knew with French. “I’m not sure,” I said finally.

  “Neither am I.”

  We stood contemplating each other. I thought it was a weightier existential dilemma from my end, but he appeared to be equally engrossed in the question.

  “I understand,” he turned abruptly and pointed rapidly towards other pieces. “You are not an eighteenth century American mahogany ladies’ writing desk!”

  “I’m not?”

  “No!”

  He stopped and made a steeple with his hands, then closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. “I think, maybe, just maybe, you are a Hepplewhite!”

  “I am?”

  “Oh yes,” he nodded vigorously. “I can see it now. You’re definitely a Hepplewhite. I should’ve seen it immediately. You are a Hepplewhite and this is your new writing desk!”

  He pulled a white sheet from a piece of furniture, revealing a delicately carved piece of mahogany.

  I had to admit if I were really buying an antique writing desk I would’ve been seriously tempted, but as you probably deduced I had a different agenda in mind.

  “You’re so talented.” My admiration wasn’t feigned as I leaned over the desk. I could just make out a series of numbers on the price tag and was fairly confident there were five as I continued. “I’ve never met someone with such a natural talent for antiques! Is everyone at your shop so gifted?”

  “Alas,” he lifted a hand to his chest. “I’m afraid I’m the only one. I had an employee but she…” he pulled me towards him and lowered his voice, “…was murdered.”

  “No!”

  “Yes,” he said with relish. “It just happened the other day. They found her body at Ware estate. I can’t believe you didn’t hear about it,” he shook his head regretfully. “You’re probably the type to disdain idle gossip.”

  I lowered my voice as well. “I should confess that I’m really a private detective.”

  He almost jumped up and down, his little vest riding over his stomach. “I knew it, as soon as I saw you I knew there was something mysterious about you.”

  I wondered if it were my flip-flops or scrunchie that conveyed my allure as he eyed me a few more seconds and then nodded his head a half dozen times.

  “Come to the back and have a cup of tea.”

  He led me behind the furniture to a heavy brocade curtain. Once pulled aside it revealed a cozy office area with an antique desk similar to the one I wouldn’t be buying, and a charming collection of Wedgwood china, Staffordshire figurines and Cecil Aldin prints. A tiny fire burned in the grate, and Mr. Thrubwell busied himself pouring out tea in an elegant pink and gold tea service. He offered me a cucumber sandwich the size of my thumbnail, and then sat back and balanced his teacup and saucer on his round belly.

  “Her name was Violet. An insipid name, I’ve always thought; Violet by the Mossy Stone, you know, Wordsworth. Heavy going. Anyway, I took her on, oh, two years ago or thereabouts. I needed someone to watch the store when I was away at my auctions and I like to hire dim personalities so my antiques really shine. Violet was… sufficient. She didn’t have my knack, but that’s something that has taken me thirty-seven years to perfect, so I didn’t expect it. But she was particularly good with my nineteenth century French porcelains, such a loss…” He stopped to take a sip of tea and then continued brightly. “Anyway, she was quite good, but I did fault her excessive breaks. She was always on a coffee break or tea break or snack break...”

  He took a sip of tea and lowered his voice dramatically. “The day she died, Monday, she came into work as usual. She sold a few trinkets and then took lunch around twelve. While she was on break she got a phone call. I can remember her words exactly.” His voice changed into a high squeak and he squinted angrily at the phone on his desk. “I’ve got it. It’s just what you asked for. Are you going to the Gray book reading tonight? Yes, I know, the book wasn’t very good, but everyone will be there. You will? Good. I’ll bring it with me. Click.” Mr. Thrubwell added the sound effects and made an effective gesture of replacing a receiver. I’ve got it! Those were her exact words. I’ve got it!”

  “What did she mean? Got what?”

  He leaned forward; his blue eyes alight with excitement. “Violet bought an antique dagger the day before she died.”

  “A dagger?” I felt my excitement rising. “What kind of dagger?”

  “It was a very interesting piece; a 15th century Rondel. I remember t
hinking it was quite odd because she’d never shown any interest in antique weaponry.”

  “Did she say why she wanted it?”

  He nodded excitedly. “She said it was a commission! She said someone asked her to pick it up for them. I was all smiles. Antique weaponry sales haven’t fared well in this economy, so I was thrilled, thrilled, thrilled to unload the Rondel. And then I found out Jasper Ware had been murdered with a dagger through the heart,” his voice lowered to a sepulchral tone, “the very dagger that Violet Ambler bought from this shop!”

  “Did she mention who she was buying it for?”

  He shook his head. “Not a word. I’ve racked my brain but haven’t been able to come up with anything. She only said that was part of her commission; that the dagger was meant to be a surprise.”

  I was sure Jasper Ware had been shocked. “Do you remember anything else? Did she mention any names?

  “No.”

  “Could you tell if she was talking to a man or a woman?”

  He shook his head. “No, sorry.”

  “Did she mention Jasper Ware when she bought the dagger?”

  “Not then, but I heard plenty about him at other times. She was always mentioning Jasper Ware…Jasper, Jasper, Jasper. I have to confess, I wasn’t a fan of his books. They were so vulgar.”

  “Did Violet ever mention Alex Ware?”

  “Now that name does sound familiar,” he sat forward excitedly and almost upset his teacup. “I believe she did talk to someone named Alex.”

  “Do you remember when this was?”

  “It was sometime last week, last Wednesday maybe? I’m sorry; this murder has me all in a muddle!”

  “Did Violet mention Alex Ware in connection with the dagger?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Do you know if Violet had any enemies?”

  “None. She was very…normal. Not the type of person I’d have thought would be murdered! And I see a lot of the dark side of human nature running an antique store.”

  “Did she go anywhere during her shift?”