Murders for Sale

by Andre Norton

“Of course, Miss Wing.” Mrs. Williams’s saccharine voice had suddenly turned sour.

  Fredericka was too exhausted to care. But as she started for the kitchen the back door banged, and a moment later Margie almost knocked her down in the hall.

  “Do you want something, Margie? Or have you come to help? I could do with some.”

  “Oh no, sorry, I can’t stay but Mom wanted me to get something from our storeroom so I just ran in.”

  Fredericka noticed that the girl’s face was very white behind the red blotches of acne, and that she also trembled with excitement—or fear, it was impossible to say which. But Fredericka was now completely exhausted. She said abruptly, “Yes, Margie, if you must, but it really would help if you’d come after hours for your personal belongings. I’m busy and it is annoying to have you banging in and out.”

  “Aunt Lucy said—” Margie began, but Fredericka cut her short.

  “I’m sorry, Margie, but I’m in charge now.” Then seeing the look of desperation in the girl’s face she forced herself to postpone the thought of breakfast, and added, “All right, but I’ll just come up with you, I think.” What could the child have on her mind now? What fresh deviltry was she up to?

  Margie agreed to this suggestion with obvious reluctance and Fredericka followed her up the stairs. By the time she reached the top she had decided to make her bed and tidy her room and not stand over the wretched girl. Margie seemed to take a very long time and when Fredericka looked in she found the girl rummaging through a trunk full of old letters. This seemed harmless enough and Fredericka decided, since her upstairs work was finished, not to wait any longer. She returned to her customers downstairs and found that they had left. Bertrand Russell lay open and face downward on the chair. Of course Mr. Williams wouldn’t buy it nor ever intended to, she thought, furiously. She picked up the book and put it on her desk, and then sank wearily into the chair. It must be well past noon and she was now almost too exhausted to bother with food.

  It was at this moment that the skies opened and the rain that had been threatening all morning pounded down in a sudden loud tit-tat-too on the tin roof over the back porch. A cool wet breeze lifted the curtain near the desk and, with relief, Fredericka got to her feet and went slowly into the kitchen. The arrival of the storm should mean the end of the customers—for the moment, anyway.

  She saw that the kitchen clock said ten minutes after three and decided to change eggs and coffee to a sandwich and iced tea. She put on the kettle and called upstairs to Margie. When there was no answer, she called again. Then with a muttered curse, she climbed the stairs, only to discover that the Hartwells’ storeroom was empty. The jumble of boxes, trunks and oddments seemed untidier than ever but there was no sign of Margie. Fredericka looked into the other rooms and then realized that the girl must have slipped out without a word. Infuriating child. The whistle of the kettle blew with a sudden shrill note and Fredericka went back to the kitchen and her long delayed meal. There was, at any rate, the consolation of being alone.

  The rain continued to beat down on the tin roof as Fredericka made her tea and sandwich. She listened to the sound and, to her delight, it seemed to be saying in a most definite and reassuring manner, “No customers. No customers.” But she had just sat down at the table in the window when there was an imperious knock at the front door.

  “Dear God,” she muttered weakly as she struggled to her feet.

  In the hall she met her visitors who had not waited for the door to be opened to them.

  “Hi!” Peter greeted her and, from behind him the chief of police said: “Good afternoon.” They stood still and expectant, dripping water from their raincoats.

  Fredericka, who had been hoping all day yesterday that Peter would appear, now felt annoyed at sight of him. “Come in,” she said grudgingly. “Better dump your raincoats here. I’m having lunch, or rather, breakfast and lunch together.”

  “Why no breakfast? And why so late?”

  “Why? Why?” Fredericka said irritably. “I’ve been answering questions the whole morning long from the moment I started to get my breakfast until the storm gave me my first break.” Seeing his look of genuine concern she relented a little. “If you want to ask me more questions, and I can see from your faces that you do, please do it in the kitchen and let me eat my lunch. I can give you iced tea but I’m unequal to more.”

  “Thanks, Fredericka,” Peter answered, and the voice behind him was an echo, as they moved together into the kitchen.

  “I haven’t much to bother you with,” Thane Carey began apologetically. He fished in his pocket awkwardly and produced a small antique silver snuff box. “Is this yours?” he asked quietly, holding it out to her in the palm of his hand.

  “Never seen it before, I’m afraid,” Fredericka said, “but I wish I could claim it. What a lovely thing it is.” She took the box from him and opened it cautiously. Inside were several orange-colored capsules.

  “Vitamins?” she asked.

  “I expect so. Not yours then?”

  “No. Where did it come from?”

  “My man found it in the long grass by your back porch.”

  “Perhaps it’s Margie’s. She comes in and out that way at all hours, day and night. But,” she hesitated, “well, it doesn’t look like Margie, does it?”

  Thane Carey smiled. “It does not, but we can’t rule out anyone, as you are well aware.”

  “Is it so important then?” It looks like a clue, and you handle it as though it was. But a clue to what? “Catherine Clay was murdered then—?” Fredericka suddenly felt cold. The two men regarded her intently.

  “We can’t jump to conclusions. On the other hand—but we must wait for the result of the autopsy before we take any active steps. We ought to have that by Wednesday or Thursday at the latest. It’s maddening that there’s this delay—but there it is.” He reached for the box and started to put it back in his pocket. Then he seemed suddenly to change his mind. He removed the capsules and handed Fredericka the empty box. “Would you be willing to keep this for me and ask your customers if any of them have lost it or known who might have?” he asked.

  “Good idea,” Peter put in. “Fredericka gets a real cross-section of the town.”

  “But I don’t know when I’ll see any of the likely ones again. I’m sure every able-bodied regular customer has crossed my threshold this morning. This afternoon I am expecting only the lame, the halt, and the blind.”

  Both men laughed a little self-consciously and then Peter said: “Oh, they’ll be back again. Never fear.”

  The chief of police stood up. For a moment he seemed to tower menacingly over Fredericka’s head. Then he said mildly enough. “I’ve got to dash, Mohun. Thanks for the iced tea, Miss Wing. It saved my life.”

  When he had gone, Fredericka and Peter lit cigarettes and moved into the living room.

  “Do you believe that it was murder?” Fredericka asked.

  “Yes, Fredericka, I do. And it is obvious that you do, too.”

  “But I don’t want to. And I can’t understand why or how it happened in my back yard and in my hammock.”

  “I have the answer to that.” He got up, went into the hall, and fished in the large pocket of his raincoat. Then he returned to Fredericka and handed her a book. “That’s your answer, I think.”

  Fredericka stared down at the lurid jacket of Kathleen Winsor’s latest novel and frowned. Then she looked up suddenly, “Of course, Catherine came to bring this back. I suppose she didn’t like it—or maybe she’d finished it—and then she just collapsed on to the hammock. But—where did you find the book?”

  “James Brewster had it.”

  “James—but how did he get it?”

  Peter then told her of his talk with James, adding at the end, “The only finger prints on the book were Catherine’s and James’s and some old ones, presumably yours.”

  “No wonder James behaved so strangely night before last. And, from what you say it does look as though h
e wanted to get rid of her, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. But if he did, he couldn’t have done it at the moment he found her here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m convinced that she was dead already when he got here.”

  “Yes—I suppose that is one of those unanswerable facts. But James Brewster could have been the murderer. Mrs. Williams supports me in this belief,” she added, with an attempt at laughter.

  “Well, I haven’t ruled him out either. He had motive, as you say, but he wasn’t alone in wanting to be rid of Catherine.”

  “No—I’ve been thinking of that, too. Everyone hated her it seems—” She thought of Margie and Roger. “Oh, Peter, I haven’t told you about Margie’s secret cache in the old greenhouse, but I suppose Thane Carey has. And I haven’t told you about meeting Roger in the woods.”

  “Carey did tell me about the junk in the greenhouse—we decided that it must be a private beauty parlour of Margie’s and that it had no bearing on the case. But what about Roger?”

  Fredericka told him the story of her Sunday afternoon’s adventure but without mentioning her accusation of which she was now a little ashamed. When she finished, Peter said thoughtfully: “I hope Philippine is right and that the next operation is successful. He needs a break and its high time he had one.”

  “But, Peter, what about his hating Catherine—I mean—?”

  “Oh, we can’t exclude him, of course.” He sighed heavily and got to his feet as though shaking off a great weight.

  “Well, I must be off. Storm’s let up.”

  “Oh dear, has it? That means more customers.” As she spoke the front door slammed again. “Curses,” she said.

  “And more of them,” Peter agreed. “I too have work—and have had all day yesterday, far into the night and practically nothing to show for it—” He broke off abruptly as James Brewster put his head around the door.

  “Am I intruding?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” Fredericka snapped. She found it difficult at all times to like this man, and now, after what Peter had just told her, and after a hard day and a hot one, he had to be the one to appear. Moreover he looked damnably clean and affable and quite unlike his usual bigger-than-thou bullying self.

  “Don’t forget the snuff box,” Peter muttered under cover of his departure. He nodded toward James and grinned. Fredericka frowned. It seemed a poor joke, and how could he go off so cheerfully and leave her alone with this great beast.

  James lowered his heavy body into the armchair that had earlier been warmed by the minister. “My dear Fredericka—if I may, please, call you by your Christian name.” He paused a little ponderously to await her answer.

  “Of course,” Fredericka answered without enthusiasm.

  “My dear Fredericka,” he repeated, “this all seems hard on you who have come so recently into our midst. Catherine was always careless, but I do confess I think she was particularly so to choose such a public place to die.”

  “Public?” Fredericka asked.

  “Well, dear Lucy always made her bookshop a sort of open house to all of us. I’m afraid we imposed on her more than we should have done. But she was tireless—tireless.”

  “So I’ve always heard,” Fredericka answered coldly, and then went on: “I’m afraid I’ve got to rearrange some stock. Was there anything special you wanted? I’ve got some good new fiction in the library.”

  “No. No. I keep up with the law journals which is about the extent of my reading except for an occasional thriller to give my brain a rest.”

  “Well, I have two or three new ones.”

  “No, Fredericka, not today.” Then, as she stood up, he said hurriedly: “Well, perhaps I will take one along before I go. You’re not trying to speed the parting guest, are you?”

  “I’m sorry if I was rude,” Fredericka answered wearily. She sat down again, but with such obvious reluctance that James got slowly to his feet. He pulled out a large gold watch from a hidden pocket.

  “Good gracious, it’s after closing time and I expect you’re more sensible about hours than dear Lucy was.”

  “No. Not at all. It’s quite all right, really,” Fredericka answered, wondering what he could possibly want. Surely he had, at first hand, all the news that the rest of South Sutton was after.

  And then, to her surprise, he said suddenly: “You get along with your last chores, ‘stock’ as you call it, or what-have-you, and I’ll just look through the murders.”

  “All right, then,” Fredericka agreed after a moment’s hesitation. What could the man want? “I expect you know where they are.”

  “I do indeed.” He coughed. “You must have had a tiring day. Wouldn’t you like to come out with me to the inn for supper? I’ve had a hard day, too. I couldn’t even get in to Worcester. And all this business on top of it.”

  Fredericka turned around to look at the heavy handsome face. Is that all? she thought. Does he only want to pump me like all the others? I suppose he wants to know what Peter’s told me and how much I know. It must be valuable if it’s worth a meal to him. Thank Heaven I put that telltale book under the others on the desk. “No,” she said quickly—too quickly, she realized at once when she saw that she had made him angry. He frowned and a sudden flush coloured his neck and the sides of his face. His hands gripped the chair back where they had rested softly a moment before.

  “It’s only,” Fredericka managed to say, in sudden panic “that I really am too tired even to go out. I’ll just get myself something light and go to bed early—if—if you don’t mind.” In her anxiety, she seemed not to be able to stop talking.

  “I quite understand, Fredericka,” he said gently. “I’ll not stop for that book tonight, then. I’m in no hurry really.”

  She dared to look up now and saw, with amazement, that his sudden anger had passed like the storm outside. But I’d hate to cross him in anything that really mattered to him, she thought, as she walked with him to the door.

  “I believe it has cleared at last,” he remarked from the path. “Air’s fresher.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” Fredericka answered him and turned back into the house. “And thank goodness you’ve gone,” she mumbled as she found her way through the empty house to the kitchen.

  After a quiet uninterrupted meal, Fredericka felt better. The soft night air that came in through the window was cool and soothing. When she had washed her dishes and taken off her apron she put her hand in the pocket of her dress and discovered the little silver snuff box. She took it to the light on the office table and studied its delicate pattern of cupids and love knots.

  “Not for snuff at all, really—rather for a lady’s beauty patches. No,” she said aloud, “somehow I don’t think Mr. James Brewster could claim this.” She grinned cheerfully as she dropped the box into the top desk drawer. How like Peter that was. She wondered when he would be back. Perhaps tomorrow to see if anyone had claimed the prize.

  Bed? Somehow Fredericka wasn’t tired any more. Perhaps it would help to tell Miss Hartwell all that had happened since her new manager had taken over the bookshop. And there was that business about the well. She pulled out a large piece of airmail paper and began to write.

  Some time later, rested and comforted by this act of confession, Fredericka sealed the envelope and put it in the centre of the blotter where she would see it in the morning. She was singing as she went out into the kitchen to get a drink before going to bed, but she stopped in sudden alarm and stared out of the window. Yes, there was no mistaking the fact that a light was visible through the tangle of shrubs at the back. It flashed and then glowed steadily for a moment before it went out. Fredericka felt herself trembling. She stood still staring out into the darkness and then, suddenly, another light flashed on and shone steadily through the leaves.

  “Of course,” she said out loud, making for the chair by the kitchen table. “How stupid of me. It’s that child—Margie.” But could it be at this hour? Nearly midnight? S
he got up and went back to the window. Yes, certainly, the light was coming from the direction of the old greenhouse. Well, she would go and put a stop to this nonsense.

  But when Fredericka reached the back porch, her resolution failed her, and as she hesitated the light went out and only darkness lay before her, velvety black and impenetrable. One knew, of course, that murderers returned to the scenes of their crime. She backed toward the door and then she heard the sound of stealthy footsteps. They seemed to be coming toward her up the garden path!

  Summoning all her courage she called out: “Who’s there? Is that you, Margie?” Her voice sounded thin and frightened. There was no answer and the sound of footsteps ceased. She called again, louder and with a show of courage she did not feel.

  Silence.

  Could she have dreamt it all? Could this be her own wild imagining? She took one step forward, then another; the next took her off the porch. She felt the softness of grass under her feet and then there was a sudden brilliant flash of light directly in her face. She reeled backward, blinded. Then the light was gone and there was only black night and the sound of running footsteps.

  Chapter 8

  Fredericka never remembered how she got back into the house after her midnight adventure. She knew only that she locked and bolted the door and went at once to the telephone.

  A sleepy voice answered when she finally got through to the police station and asked for the chief of police. The sergeant on duty explained that the chief had not been there all evening. Was it urgent?

  Fredericka was about to say that it was urgent—very—and then thought better of it. In the warm circle of lamplight by the office desk, she felt her fears recede. It couldn’t possibly have been anyone but Margie—the mad prank of a mad child. Moreover, Margie or anyone else would certainly by now have put considerable distance between herself, or himself, and the bookshop.

  “No. No, it isn’t important,” she said. “I—I had forgotten how late it is. Could I perhaps have Mr. Carey’s telephone number at home?”

  The voice now had a note of suspicion. “Who is that calling, please—?”