A Wee Dose of Death

by Fran Stewart

  “Mistress Emily,” Dirk said.

  Karaline nodded as she typed in the password. The file opened.

  “Oh my God,” she said after reading for only a few seconds. “It’s the third jungle book.”

  “What?” I moved the laptop slightly so I could focus on the screen. “Jungle Passion,” I read, “by Denbi Marcas. Who’s Denbi Marcas?”

  “Denbi Marcas!” Why did Karaline sound excited?

  “What,” Dirk asked, “would be a jungle?”

  “You don’t know about jungles?”

  He shook his head.

  “You know Latin and Greek, but you never heard of a jungle?”

  “Leave him alone, P. He grew up in Scotland. They don’t have jungles. Is the whole book there?”

  I looked at the bar along the bottom of the document. “It says it has 79,254 words. Does that sound like a complete book?”

  She nodded. “That’s about right.”

  I scrolled down a page and read aloud. “Chapter 1. July 23rd, 1782. I honestly don’t think I would have fallen for him so hard if he’d kept his shirt on. Those abs of his, sweat-drenched as they were in the steamy rainforest, shone in the light of the full moon. What on earth is this drivel?”

  “Drivel? It isn’t drivel,” Karaline said. “Do you have any idea who Denbi Marcas is?”

  I looked at her blankly.

  “You don’t read romance novels, right? Otherwise you’d know. Denbi Marcas is only the best-selling author of dozens of romances. She’s a prolific writer. She turns out maybe three books a year.”

  “You read romance? I didn’t know that. You never told me.”

  “You never asked me.”

  “What would be romance,” Dirk asked, and then corrected himself. “That is to say, I ken weel enow what r-r-romance is”—the r’s fairly rolled off his tongue—“but I didna think it was something to read. Read about, mayhap.”

  I stopped scrolling to answer him. “It’s a type of novel. Book. Story.”

  Karaline turned my laptop back and kept reading. “She writes historical romance,” she said.

  “Like that makes it better?”

  “Quit being such a snob. You can learn a lot about history reading these. Denbi Marcas always researches her books.”

  I looked over her shoulder. “How would you know?”

  “I’ve read her interviews. And book jackets.”

  “What would be—”

  “She writes history? In a steamy jungle?”

  Karaline scrolled back to the top. “It’s set in the 1700s.”

  “I don’t think ‘abs’ was a term they used in the 1700s, K.”

  “What would be—”

  “And why would Marcus Wantstring have a file with a Denbi Marcas book in it?”

  I reached across her as a flash of color on the screen caught my eye. A comment. I let the cursor hover over it. Abs? it said. In 1782? Where on earth did you come up with that one, Denby? Can we change it to shoulders? The author of the comment was listed as MW.

  “Denby? What kind of name would that be?”

  “Good question, Dirk. Wish I knew the answer.”

  “The only Denby I know of—with a Y at the end,” Karaline said, “is Denby Harper, that other UVM professor I mentioned. Dr. H, but he died recently. I read about it in an alumni bulletin.”

  I looked at Karaline. She looked at me. “Pen name,” we said at the same time.

  Dirk looked blank. “What,” he asked, “would be a pin name, and what is in the ither wee boxes with a lock?”

  “Good question. I’ll tell you in a second.” She fiddled with a few keys, and a second file popped open. The lurid book cover featured DENBI MARCAS in caps and the title in bright red letters.

  “Where do you suppose they came up with a model with pecs like that?”

  “What would be pec—”

  “It’s photoshopped,” Karaline assured me.

  “What would be foto—”

  I had to agree. The polish on the red-lacquered nails on the hand that clung to his biceps never would have lasted in any jungle I’d ever heard about. “Did they even have nail polish in the 1700s?”

  Karaline ignored my question. “It’s a very good pen name.”

  “Yeah, but what do you think they do if they have to sign books at a bookstore? Two middle-aged men show up?”

  “No wonder they were keeping it a secret,” Karaline said.

  But then we both seemed to remember at the same time that neither of these men would ever sign another book.

  “What,” Dirk sounded aggrieved, “would be in the ither box?”

  But the password wouldn’t work on this one.

  “Wait,” I said. “What on earth could this novel have to do with that other file about the lab rats?”

  “Maybe it was research. Some sort of jungle parasite that takes over the world.”

  “In a romance novel?”

  “Yeah. You’re right. They’re not connected.”

  Dirk made one of those growly sounds deep in his throat. “Ye twa have caprine minds.”

  “Kapreenuh? What’s that?”

  He muttered something. It sounded like “goat brain.”

  * * *

  Harper picked up on the first ring. All this time and he still had no leads. Gray parka, black ski mask, short guy with maroon ski shoes. That was it.

  The voice on the other end, female and no-nonsense, identified herself. “Tolly Smith, lieutenant, Burlington Police. You the one who called our station about the murder of Marcus Wantstring?”

  “Right. I did.”

  “His house in Burlington was broken into sometime late last Saturday or early Sunday.” She gave the dates. “A neighbor found it when she went in to water the plants. She finally got around to reporting it this morning. Said she thought we ought to know about it. Name’s unusual—I recognized it and put it together with the homicide. The neighbor said the windowpane on the back door was broken. With this being glove weather, I doubt there’ll be any fingerprints, particularly since the neighbor’s husband nailed a plywood panel over the door.”

  “Why?”

  “Good Samaritan, I guess. Didn’t want anybody else walking in.”

  “You think it’s connected to the murder.” Harper wasn’t asking a question. That was the way any cop worth his—her—badge would think.

  Smith didn’t even bother to answer. “Could you connect with the wife on that end? If she needs to come up here—and that’s your call—your job is to convince her.”

  “Convince her? Why would I need to do that?” Harper pulled out the combined Hamelin and Arkane phone book, all 126 pages of it, including the business listings at the back, and thumbed to the Ws.

  “Get this. The neighbor said Mrs. Wantstring hadn’t washed her dishes before she left. Didn’t want us seeing the mess, so she told the neighbor not to call us.”

  “So why did the neighbor call today?” He dropped the phone book back in the drawer. He could get the number from the police report.

  “Neighbor said she got to thinking about it and wondered if it had anything to do with Mark Wantstring’s death. You think? So she called. It’s only been a week since she discovered something had happened.”

  “Does Mrs. Wantstring know she called you?”

  “No idea. Can you imagine a woman afraid we’d think less of her if she hadn’t washed her china?”

  A blur of images crossed Harper’s mind, the hundreds of crime scenes he’d visited, mostly when he was on the force in Poughkeepsie. He’d seen so much devastation. And Emily Wantstring was embarrassed about dirty dishes? “I’ll talk to her and get back to you. Did the neighbor know if anything was taken?”

  “Laptop, she was sure about, but didn’t know of anything else.”


  Why hadn’t Emily Wantstring called the Hamelin Police to report that there’d been a break-in at her house in the city? Did she really think it had no bearing on the murder of her husband? Why hadn’t she mentioned it while she was here at the station for hours on Thursday?

  He knew she wasn’t the one with the gray parka, but was there a possibility she’d hired gray parka to murder her husband and steal his laptop? Then she might not want anyone to know about the break-in, although he couldn’t for the life of him imagine why she’d think that way. The Vermont estate tax didn’t apply unless the estate was valued at 2.75 million dollars, and from what he’d seen, the Wantstrings didn’t look like they had that kind of money. Of course, she’d have five million soon enough, but not if she’d murdered her husband for it.

  Had he been wrong about her, or could it really have been something as stupid as embarrassment over dirty dishes? Good thing the neighbor was a little more civic-minded.

  He wrapped up the conversation with Smith and checked the address in the file. He picked up his parka. Something like this was better done in person.

  The phone rang as he reached the door, but Moira routed it to Murphy, so he kept going.

  * * *

  Emily peeked out the window beside her front door. It was that nice policeman. She couldn’t remember his name. Pianist or something like that. She knew it was something having to do with music. Somebody who played an instrument. Her throat tightened, and she had to make a conscious effort to breathe.

  “Come in, Officer. Did you find the scarf?” She didn’t want to admit she couldn’t remember his name. The other one, the one who had talked to her last week at the station, had a very Irish name. Sergeant Patrick. Was that right? And Miss Fairing. She remembered that one.

  “Scarf? No. I . . . I’m Captain Harper.”

  Harper, not Pianist. She showed him into the living room and motioned to the blue couch. She sat on the yellow one. “What can I help you with?”

  He unzipped his parka but didn’t take it off. “I understand someone broke into your house in Burlington.”

  “How did you . . . That is, I mean . . . yes. My neighbor said she thought someone had taken my husband’s laptop.”

  “Was there anything else missing that you’re aware of?”

  “No, there wasn’t. I drove up on Monday as soon as Sandra called me. All the china and silver was where it was supposed to be.”

  “I’m sure you know . . .” He seemed to take a very deep breath.

  She admired the smooth flow of air into his lungs. Baritone? No, she decided. He’d be a bass. She loved the way those low notes vibrated. For a moment she wished he would sing her a happy birthday song. Still, it didn’t seem right to think about her birthday now that Mark . . . Marcus was gone.

  “. . . that there’s a chance this break-in could be connected to your husband’s murder.”

  “I don’t see . . . There’s no reason for anyone to kill Mark . . . Marcus. He worked with bacteria, microscopic bugs, silly things like that.” Emily couldn’t imagine that anyone on earth would find that even interesting except another microbiologist, and there were precious few of those here in Hamelin.

  “Is there a chance someone might have felt threatened by something he was working on?”

  “Threatened by bug studies? You have to be joking.”

  “No. I’m afraid there’s no joke. Somebody wanted him dead.”

  “But there’s nothing we can do now, is there?”

  “There’s quite a bit we can do.” She could tell he was trying to make his voice as soothing as possible. “The investigation is proceeding, but the break-in at your other house might have given us some clues if you’d let us know right away.”

  “Are you here to arrest me again?”

  Emily thought he looked a little embarrassed, as well he should.

  “Mrs. Wantstring?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is there anything else you haven’t told us?”

  She looked down at the small wooden puzzle box on the coffee table. “Well . . .”

  38

  Password Protected

  Back at the station, Harper shuffled through a stack of reports. Very few people in Hamelin had known Dr. Wantstring, but those who’d known him had liked him. More people knew his wife, but most of those didn’t particularly like her; he could understand why. If somebody from here was the murderer and the motive was personal, why hadn’t they killed Emily? And what could the Burlington break-in have to do with this?

  He scanned down a few lines on the report. Murphy had checked phone records again to see whether Wantstring’s cell had been used in the past two weeks. Nothing since the Saturday when his wife had last seen him. He made a note in the margin and turned to consider the wooden puzzle box sitting in the center of his desk. He’d never had any luck opening those things, and this one had proved just as insoluble.

  He picked it up and tried it again, twisting, pushing, rotating. Nothing.

  Harper was only vaguely aware of Murphy hanging up the phone, and he sucked in his breath when Murphy materialized beside him. Had he been so engrossed in this box that he’d tuned everything out?

  “Fender Lady just called, but that’s not what you need to know. Mrs. Wantstring called while you were gone.”

  “I was just there talking with her.”

  “You were? She called only a minute or two after you left.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She said she couldn’t find her husband’s three-ring binder, green. Asked me to look for it.”

  “Did she say what was in it?”

  “She didn’t know, but she thought it was important because he always kept it with him.”

  Harper couldn’t recall anything like that on the personal effects list. “Did we have it?”

  “No. There weren’t any books or writing materials in the cabin. Except for a couple of ballpoint pens he had in his shirt pocket.”

  “I noticed that.”

  “They were green. You think he color-coded his pens and binders?”

  Harper ignored that one.

  “And she says she’s missing a scarf, too. Brown.”

  “I heard about the scarf. We don’t have it. But why did she wait all this time to mention the binder?”

  “Maybe she really is the murderer. But we haven’t found a motive yet. Other than the five million dollars.” Murphy laid on the Irish brogue. “And wouldn’t I hate to ask Fairing to arrest the poor woman one more time. We can’t arrest her without due cause, can we?”

  “Why not? We already did once.” Harper twirled his blue pen around on the desk. “Why would he have pens in that cabin if he didn’t have anything to write on?”

  “I wondered that, too, so I thought—”

  “You thought right. Our murderer took any books or papers he found, and maybe that green binder, too, and then broke into the Burlington house to steal a laptop. So, the question is—”

  “What was in the binder?” Murphy finished Harper’s sentence with what looked to Harper like satisfaction.

  “Okay. So what can you deduce from that?” Good grief, Harper thought, I do sound like Sherlock Holmes talking to Dr. Watson.

  “I’d say murder with malice aforethought.” Harper raised his eyebrow and Murphy hastened to explain. “That means murder in the first degree, like she planned it ahead of time.”

  “I know what ‘malice aforethought’ means, Murphy, but we don’t usually hear that term within these hallowed walls. What are you doing, studying to be a lawyer?”

  Murphy reddened. “I’m taking some courses online during my off time.”

  “You want to be an attorney?”

  Murphy looked around. Moira was on the phone. Sergeant Fairing looked like she was texting somebody. Murphy straightened his back. “I plan
to be chief someday.”

  Mac’ll have to die first, Harper thought.

  * * *

  I could hear Harper’s phone switching over to voice-mail mode. “Grrr! Why isn’t he available when I need him?” Dirk made a placating sound, but it didn’t calm me down. I disconnected. “I’m going to drive over to the police station. He’ll have to show up eventually.”

  “Why do ye not leave him a wee message?”

  Dirk had been fascinated by voice mails ever since I’d first introduced him to the concept. Crazy thing was, he was right. I called back, getting my message composed in my mind as the phone rang once, twice.

  “Harper here.”

  “Why did you answer your phone?”

  “Because . . . it rang? Is this some sort of trick question?”

  The undercurrent in his voice made me think maybe he was laughing at me. “I was expecting voice mail.”

  “I know. I saw that you called.”

  “I have something I have to show you. It’s what Karaline and I were looking for at the cabin.”

  “I thought you said the gray parka guy took it.”

  “There was another USB. She was reaching up to pull it off the top of the doorframe when she was shot.” I paused. “I don’t know if it has any bearing whatsoever on his death, but I thought you ought to know.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In the hospital parking lot.”

  “Headed in or out?”

  “Out. Karaline knew the password to open two of the locked files. We can’t get the other one unlocked, so I’m headed to your office.”

  “Drive safely, but get here as fast as you can.”

  I started the car, turned to look at Dirk in the passenger seat. “We’re going to the police station. Please, please, don’t make a single comment while we’re there.”

  I’d halfway expected a smart rejoinder, but Dirk’s face was entirely serious. “We maun stop this nathaira. I willna slow ye.”

  “What’s a nathayra?”