Cyanide with Christie

by Katherine Bolger Hyde

  She’d finished with the box of photo albums, so she opened the next box. This one was full of personal correspondence – files upon files of it. Had Beatrice kept every letter she ever received? And carbons of many of her responses as well. All the letters were neatly sorted by sender, recipient, and date.

  Emily skimmed over the files labeled with names she didn’t recognize. But the family ones she lingered over. Here were all her own letters, spanning forty-five years – from the time she could write until a few months before Aunt Beatrice’s death. She realized with compunction the file was not extremely fat, for all that. Her letters had been dutiful and few. She’d been fond of Aunt Beatrice and appreciated all her aunt had done for her – including putting her through college, minus the little Emily could earn on her own – but the businesslike old woman had never inspired the kind of heart-to-heart confidence Emily might have placed in her mother, had her mother lived.

  Geoff’s file was even thinner; he had written to thank Beatrice for Christmas gifts, and occasionally from college to plead for a little extra spending money, but that was about all. Her mother, Eleanor, had written often, though. Emily opened this file with eager interest.

  Eleanor had never been one to complain, especially to her husband’s aunt – although Emily knew Beatrice had no illusions about her nephew’s weaknesses nor made any excuses for them. Instead, Eleanor wrote of the small, happy moments of family life, moments she was always able to find or create despite the overall bleakness of their lives. Yet their poverty and rootlessness were evident between the lines, and many of Eleanor’s letters included a word of thanks for some little gift or consideration shown to the children or herself. Never cash, lest Ernest get his hands on it and waste it, but practical gifts that ensured Geoff and Emily were properly clothed and equipped for school and could put on a brave face before the world.

  Letters from Ernest himself were few and far between until after Eleanor died. Then the begging began, subtle at first but escalating in urgency and tone until the letters sounded more demanding than pleading. Beatrice’s responses, copies of all of which she kept, were always firm: she would provide for the children directly, but she would in no way risk abetting her nephew’s vices and irresponsibility with gifts of cash. More than once she offered to have Geoff and Emily come to live with her permanently, but Ernest always refused. Emily suspected he’d feared that would deprive him of any small hold he had on Beatrice.

  The self-portrait of her father contained in these letters was even less flattering than Emily’s memories. But she reminded herself this was only one side of him, and the worst side at that. When he was happy and sober, he could be charming, witty, literate, playful, even loving. But those sober and happy times came with increasing rarity after her mother died.

  A few years into the begging period came a letter that baffled Emily.

  Dear Aunt Beatrice,

  Thank you for the shoes and school supplies for Geoff and Emily, and for paying for their hot lunches for the year. These things do make our lives much easier, especially the lunches, as it’s hard on Emily having to pack them every day. She’s a sweet girl and tries so hard to take her mother’s place, but it’s a lot to ask of a youngster.

  I have incurred another obligation just lately – quite a legitimate and pressing one, I assure you, though I’m not in a position to say exactly what it is. I wonder if you could possibly see your way clear to giving – or even lending – me a few hundred dollars in cash – perhaps as much as a thousand. It would make the world of difference, and I promise you it would not be an unworthy use of your money; I know you’re always so scrupulous about such things. If you would be so good as to let me know before the month is out, I would be most appreciative.

  Your loving nephew,

  Ernest

  And Beatrice’s response:

  My dear Ernest,

  You should know by now that I cannot possibly agree to send you cash directly. If this obligation is indeed as legitimate and pressing as you claim, you will have to explain it and provide me with sufficient evidence of its legitimacy. Once satisfied on that point, I would need a reliable third party through whom the funds could be channeled to their intended purpose. I will on no account give money directly to you. As for a loan, you insult my intelligence by suggesting it. You might as well offer to sell me the Brooklyn Bridge.

  Your loving aunt – who was not, however, born yesterday,

  Beatrice

  Emily smiled in spite of herself at this wholly characteristic reply. But she couldn’t help wondering what the extraordinary obligation could have been. Usually Ernest’s attempts to wangle cash were much more moderate. Could he have invented the obligation, reasoning that a substantial request would seem more credible as a one-time affair? Shooting the moon, as it were.

  She flipped more quickly through the remaining letters until she came to a file that said simply, Contents deposited with MacDougal and Simpson for safekeeping. The original typed label on the file had been inked out with a black marker, but the top of a single ascender showed over the marker at the beginning of the word. Assuming that letter was a capital, it could only be an ‘I’, ‘J’, or ‘L’. None of those letters applied to anyone in the family.

  Emily frowned in concentration as she picked up the phone to call Jamie. Why had he never delivered this file to her as a part of her aunt’s estate? He’d passed on all the documents relating to Beatrice’s various properties and business dealings, but no personal letters at all.

  Jamie answered on the second ring. ‘Jamie? Emily. I’ve been going through some of Beatrice’s old papers, and there’s a file here that says its contents were deposited with your firm. It’s in a box of personal correspondence, so I assume this file would have contained personal letters as well.’

  ‘Really? That’s odd. I was sure I’d given you everything. Do you have any idea what the date would be? Or what it’s about?’

  ‘Not really. The files are in alphabetical order, then the contents of each are arranged by date. The label is blacked out, but it may have started with an I, J, or L. The folder itself is pretty yellowed, so I’d guess it’s on the older side.’

  ‘If it was older than 2010, it could conceivably have been left behind at my dad’s old office. I’ll check with him and get back to you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Emily put down the phone with a growing presentiment. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. Beatrice would not have deposited that folder with her lawyer for nothing.

  TWENTY

  At teatime, all the guests in the library cleared their computers away and tucked in with gusto. Brainwork might seem sedentary, but Emily knew from experience it could be quite as draining as physical labor. And the most welcome antidotes to that exhaustion were sugar and caffeine, which Katie provided in good supply.

  Emily poured the tea, adding sugar, milk, or lemon according to everyone’s preferences, which she’d memorized by this time. She didn’t bother offering the honey around, since she already knew no one else would take it. But she put a little extra in her own cup, feeling the need for fortification. After one sip, though, she made a face and put the cup down. Apparently, with this honey, a little extra was too much.

  Oscar sat next to her on the loveseat and sighed with contentment as he licked pastry crumbs from his fingers. ‘I’m going to miss this when I go back to Reed. Not the murder, of course, but the food, the room with a view, the bathtub. All this comfort is spoiling me for real life.’

  ‘Are you really as poor as all that?’ Emily asked. She herself had made a comfortable living as a tenured professor. She knew the junior profs made less, of course, but Oscar talked as if he were a veritable pauper.

  He gave a short, wry laugh that was almost a snort. ‘I’m an adjunct prof. Do you know how adjunct profs get paid?’

  She had to admit she’d never really thought about it.

  ‘By the hour. Of actual classtime. Not a penny for all the
hours that go into prep, grading, meeting with students, faculty meetings. Actual classtime adds up to about ten hours a week. The rest of it is another fifty.’

  Emily was dumbfounded. She wouldn’t have believed her own college could treat anyone that way.

  ‘You’ve seen my car,’ Oscar went on. ‘I buy all my clothes, all my everything, at thrift stores. My “room” is literally a closet, barely big enough for a bed – forget about a desk. I live off ramen and peanut butter. I’d scrounge in the cafeteria if I could get away with it, but that’s frowned on for staff. We’re supposed to be more dignified.’

  Emily was well acquainted with scroungers – students who would stand by the racks where diners left their trays after eating and pick up any leftover food. She herself might have been in such a position as an undergrad if not for Aunt Beatrice; as it was, she would often take a little more than she wanted going through the cafeteria line just so she could pass it on. She hated to think of Oscar being poor enough to consider scrounging an attractive option.

  She still had some influence in the literature department. Perhaps a word or two in a well-chosen ear could help Oscar to a more stable position for next year. She’d have to confer with Marguerite and brainstorm what might be done.

  Luke had been working in his office all afternoon, running a virtual fine-tooth comb through the backgrounds of Ian, Olivia, Dustin, and Hilary with no particularly interesting results. As he was about to head back to Windy Corner with a couple of hours to spare before dinner, he got a call from Jordan. ‘Got it cracked for you,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll be right down. Can you hang around in case I need more help?’

  ‘I guess. As long as I can get home for dinner.’

  ‘Put me through to the lab, would you?’

  Caitlyn confirmed she had the lab results ready and the ME had finished the autopsy. He’d be able to get all the info at once.

  Luke made the best time he safely could and found Jordan poking around Cruella’s laptop and shaking his head.

  ‘Nasty piece of work is right. By the way, what you said about her being a blackmailer was the key.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Password’s “Amberiotis”. Character in a Christie novel. Blackmailer who gets himself killed.’

  ‘Well, now, isn’t that interesting?’ Luke mused. ‘Wonder if she somehow knew how she was going to end up.’

  ‘Dangerous occupation, blackmail,’ Jordan replied. ‘Practically have to have a death wish. Or else think you’re immortal.’

  ‘I’d guess the latter in her case.’ He clapped Jordan on the back. ‘Thanks for your help. You can go back to your leftovers now.’

  Luke grabbed the laptop and headed over to the morgue. He could examine the computer at his leisure, but Caitlyn and the ME would want to get home.

  ‘Whatcha got for me?’ he asked as he walked in, holding a peppermint in his mouth to mask the ambient smell. A body, presumably Cruella’s, lay on the metal autopsy table, covered by a sheet.

  George Tomlinson, the medical examiner, looked up from his computer, where he was presumably writing up his official report.

  ‘Cyanide,’ he said. ‘Half-hour or so before death. Alcohol present. Can’t be sure if they were ingested together.’

  ‘What I figured.’ Luke found himself adopting Tomlinson’s laconic style in his presence. ‘Thanks.’ He crossed the hall to the lab.

  Caitlyn greeted him with a smile. ‘This is a nice one. No gray areas. We found cyanide in the little vial and in the glass. Plus a considerable quantity dissolved in the amaretto remaining in the bottle.’

  Luke whistled. So that meant the poison had been added to the amaretto bottle, not the glass. And almost certainly – considering where the poison container had been found – that had been done while the bottle was still in the library, rather than during the blackout, after Katie had carried the tray into the parlor. The table in the parlor had been nowhere near the windows on that side of the house, and to cross the room in the dark would have meant risking noise and detection.

  No one – except Cruella herself – could have known before the bottle was removed from the library that she would be the first one to drink the amaretto. So the poison had to have been intended for Emily.

  Luke thought he had dealt emotionally with this possibility, but now that it hit him as a definite fact, he felt a chill that began with his fingers and toes and ran all the way back to his heart. What had before been just a job – catching a murderer simply to serve the impersonal interests of justice – now became a personal mission to protect the woman he loved.

  He took a moment to consider the case as it stood. Given this development, none of his prime suspects had a motive. Ian, Olivia, and Dustin had only just met Emily at the time of the murder, whereas Hilary had known her for several months but had no reason to bear her any animosity. Back to square freaking one.

  ‘Lieutenant?’ Caitlyn’s voice broke into his reverie. ‘Are we done here?’

  He shook himself back into the here and now. ‘Oh, yeah, sorry. Fingerprint reports done, do you know?’

  ‘Jamal left them for you. Right here.’ She handed him a folder.

  ‘Thanks. You can go home now. Really appreciate you coming in over the holidays.’

  ‘Sure thing.’ She collected her belongings and walked out. Luke was left staring at the contents of the folder, his mind’s eye full of a different sight altogether.

  Ignore motive for a minute, he told himself. If he could figure out when the poison was added to the bottle, he might be able to narrow down who could have done it. He’d been going on the assumption that it was done shortly before Katie took the bottle into the parlor – while Devon’s team was waiting for the second charade. If that were the case, it would have to have been someone on that team; anyone else would have been noticed and remarked upon. Except Katie or Jamie, but he was ruling them out a priori.

  But it didn’t have to have been done then. If it was meant for Emily, the cyanide could have been dumped in during the wait for the first scene, or even earlier. One person could have slipped into the library during the carol singing, or in the transition between sherry and dinner, or between dinner and carols. Heck, the room had been crowded enough during the sherry party – somebody could have slipped over to the bar shelf unnoticed then. Not Dustin, because Luke had kept an eye on him personally, but anyone else might have managed it if they were quick enough.

  He turned his attention to the fingerprint report in his hand and skimmed it. None of the items had yielded any fingerprints that had no business to be there. Marguerite’s, Emily’s, Katie’s, and Cruella’s on the amaretto; Katie’s and Cruella’s on the glass; and none at all on the amber vial. The killer had been smart enough and cautious enough to wear gloves.

  That did mean the job was not likely to have been done while the room was full. Pulling on a pair of gloves would add time and attract attention. For that matter, what had happened to the gloves? Only normal outdoor gloves had been found in the house, on the guests, or among their things. No gloves in the bushes outside.

  Luke had an excellent visual memory, which had served him well in this job. He thought back to what various members of the party had been wearing. Who could have had a bulky pair of outdoor gloves in their pockets?

  Dustin had been wearing a T-shirt and jeans that he bulged out of; no room for gloves there. Olivia’s burgundy velvet dress was elegant and sleek, close-fitting without being tight; he doubted it even had any pockets. Oscar wore a tweed jacket over his dress shirt and slacks – possible he could have had gloves in a coat pocket, but Luke thought they would have made a bulge. Ian was wearing a tailor-made suit whose smooth pockets could never have held anything thicker than a handkerchief. Of course, now that Luke thought about it, a dexterous person could have managed the job with a handkerchief instead of gloves, and Ian’s long, slender hands looked like they’d be up to the challenge. Oscar with his nervous jitters and Dustin in hi
s alcoholic haze seemed less likely.

  He had to consider the local folks, now that he knew Emily was the target. Devon and Hilary had both worn sleek suits similar to Ian’s. Marguerite’s black dress was as form-fitting as Olivia’s. Veronica’s vintage blouse and skirt were looser; if she had pockets, a pair of gloves might have fit in them unobserved. But why on earth would Veronica want to harm Emily?

  Then there was Wanda. That sleazy slip of a dress she’d had on couldn’t conceal a hairpin, but she could have slipped on her fur jacket at some point – he remembered seeing it lying around the library instead of hung up with the others in the hall. And she’d probably brought a purse as well.

  In point of fact, gloves or no gloves, almost any of them could have found an opportunity. He wasn’t going to solve anything that way. It had to come down to motive. But who would want to hurt Emily?

  He went through the people again in his mind, as if he hadn’t done so a hundred times already. The guests in the house: Dustin had a grudge against the world, but he could have nothing personal against Emily. Ian and Olivia seemed genuinely fond of her. And, he had to admit, so did Oscar – in a totally innocent way.

  Marguerite and the local people had all been Emily’s friends for months, if not years. If any of them had any kind of hidden, crazy spite against her, they could have acted on it at any time.

  That left Wanda. She did seem vaguely hostile to Emily. But what could she possibly have against her strong enough to make her want to kill?

  This line of thinking was getting him nowhere. He took the reports and Cruella’s laptop to an empty desk, logged into the laptop, and began systematically exploring Cruella’s files and accounts.

  He found plenty to back up what he already knew about her persecution of Ian and Olivia and her attempt to blackmail Dustin. All irrelevant if she wasn’t the real target. But in addition to all that, he found a file that puzzled him. It was named Lansing, and the creation date was December twenty-third – the day after Cruella arrived at Windy Corner.