by Parnell Hall
“The Seattle police broke into Sebastian’s apartment and looked at his computer?”
“See, that’s exactly what I don’t want people thinking. Luckily the computer nerd story is holding up.”
“There really was an e-mail?”
“Yeah, there was. Doesn’t mean he got it. Doesn’t prove who sent it. Frankly, I’d like to drag him down to the library, see if anyone recalls him hangin’ around.”
“You think he sent it himself?”
“Well, if he needed an excuse to be here. Or needed to prove he was there.”
“Can’t they tell if an e-mail’s been opened?”
“Sure. All that proves is someone checked his e-mail. It couldn’t be that hard to arrange. Speaking of arranging things, how’d you get the two brothers to accuse each other?”
“What makes you think that was me?”
“Are you kidding me? The Alan’s-trying-to-kill-Arlene theory is straight out of your playbook. And Sebastian didn’t have it before.”
“You don’t think much of that theory?”
“What, Alan’s trying to kill Arlene so he kills five other people? You think maybe he’s practicing up for when he actually is married to her? And no, I cannot find any record of a marriage between Alan Guilford and Arlene Winnington.”
“Too bad. It’s a nice theory.”
“Not that I’m washing him out as a suspect. He was the last person to see Charlotte alive.”
“A statement he volunteered.”
“Yes. Which he immediately tried to bolster by making up a story even he doubted. Charlotte asked him how he liked his pancakes, only he didn’t have pancakes, he had scrambled eggs and toast. Instead of bolstering his story, it casts doubt on it.”
“That’s the thing. It’s such a stupid lie, it almost has to be true.”
“Too bad we can’t ask Charlotte.”
“Yeah.” Cora shrugged. “That’s the problem with murder victims. They’re dead.”
Chapter
54
“Hi, Becky. Glad you’re here. I need a favor.”
Becky Baldwin looked up from her desk, blinked. “You want me to do you a favor?”
“Quick study. I always liked that about you. Call your client, get him in here. Him and his girlfriend. Get ’em both.”
“And just why should I do that?”
“It’s a favor. I’ll owe you one.”
“You don’t think you owe me one already?”
“Why?”
“For making trouble for my client. For making trouble for me.”
Cora waved it away. “You think I did that deliberately? I’d never interfere with your relationship with your client. Hell, I sent him to you in the first place. I got Chief Harper to scare him into hiring you. Come on, kid. We may have our differences, but we’re all in this together.”
“And just why do I want my client to come in here?”
“Because I asked you to.”
“No. What reason do I give him?”
“Oh. You want to fill him in on the case.”
“What do I want to tell him about the case?”
“That’s up to you.”
“Cora.”
“You just heard from me. I’m calling a meeting tonight at the Guilford house to discuss the crime. I want everyone there.”
“What if they won’t go?”
“Then my accusation will go uncontested. They can deny it, but not before it’s made the front page of the morning paper and the eleven o’clock news lead.”
“You’re going to make an accusation?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“You’re not sure?”
“Well, I don’t know who to accuse.”
“What?”
“Don’t tell ’em that part, will you?”
“What are you doing, running a bluff? Telling everyone you know who did it, and waiting to see who tries to kill you.”
“Hey, that’s a much better plan than mine. Except for the trying-to-kill-me bit. I hate it when that happens.”
Chapter
55
Cora hopped in her car, sped out to the Guilford house. A car passed her going the other way with two people in it who looked like Alan and Arlene. She hoped it was.
Cora drove by the Guilford house around the block, parked in front of Arlene’s. There was no car in the drive, a good sign. Cora got out, went up the walk, banged on the front door. There was no answer.
Cora came down off the porch, went around the house to the back door. It was locked. So was the kitchen window. A window farther down might have been open, but the ground fell away there and Cora couldn’t reach it. She looked around for something to climb on. The picnic bench looked promising, except it was long and clumsy. It was better than nothing. Cora lugged it over, placed it under the window. Due to the length of the bench and the slope of the land, it was on a slant. Cora climbed up. It was like standing on a slide. She caught her balance, reached up, and grabbed the windowsill. She pulled up with one hand, wedged her other hand under the window, and jiggled. It moved. Unfortunately, that was as far as she could push it.
Cora hopped down, looked around for something else. There was nothing higher except for the picnic table itself, and she wasn’t up to moving it without help. She took the other bench, lugged it over, placed it on top of the first one. She stepped back and surveyed her work. She had created a leaning tower of benches. The sort of thing one might climb on if it were the only way to escape a raging fire.
Cora put her foot on the bottom bench, tried to pull herself up to the second. Of course the bench itself was in the way. If she kept her foot on the bottom bench, she’d fall backward before she could reach the second. And if she tried to reach the second, her foot would slide off the first.
Cora took the top bench down, moved the bottom bench about six inches out from the wall. She lifted the other bench on top, pushed it up against the wall. This created a more precarious slide than the one she’d been attempting to scale. She put her foot on the bottom bench, pushed up, swung her knee over the second. The top bench lurched away from the wall, teetered for a moment on two legs. Cora flung her arm out, groped for the sill. She caught it with her fingertips, clawed her fingernails into the wood, and pulled. The bench shuddered, nearly collapsed in on itself, then swung back against the wall. Cora pulled herself onto the bench and stood up. She took hold of the window and pushed.
If the window had been locked, Cora would have broken the glass, but it slid up easily. She exhaled the breath she’d been holding, reached in, got a grip. With a little hop off the top bench, Cora heaved herself over the sill.
Cora was prepared to roll over onto the floor, but she never reached it. Instead she flopped unceremoniously into what proved to be a laundry sink. She climbed out, looked around.
She was in what must have been a maid’s room. It had a single bed, an end table, and a black-and-white TV.
The door was closed. It had a keyhole. If it was locked, Cora was going to flip out. It wasn’t. It led to the back hallway. Cora went out, set off in the direction she assumed the kitchen would be. She found herself in a dining room with glass breakfronts full of china, and an oak table that could have seated twelve, though there were only eight chairs around it now.
At one end of the dining room was a swinging door. Cora pushed her way into what proved to be the pantry. A door off the pantry led to the cellar, just like in the Guilford house. Only this cellar had a light switch right inside the door. Cora snapped on the lights, hurried down the stairs.
There were no graves in Arlene’s basement; it had a cement floor. There was a lot of junk, none of it likely to be hers: trunks; suitcases; an old bicycle; an air conditioner; a battered dresser, complete with a broken mirror.
In one corner were stacks of newspapers, mostly the Bakerhaven Gazette, but some from out of town. Cora checked the dates. None were more recent than last year.
One pile appeared to have been pawed through.
<
br /> Cora looked at her watch. She was taking too long. She had to get out. She hurried up the stairs, went into the kitchen.
It was a large country kitchen with an eight-burner stove, a wall of refrigeration units, a butcher block table, and a whole wall of cupboards and cabinets. Cora wasn’t quite sure of the distinction between a cabinet and a cupboard, but there were a lot of places to look. She began opening doors.
Only one refrigerator had anything in it. Milk, eggs, mayonnaise, cold cuts. It didn’t look like Arlene did much cooking.
The cabinets were as bare as the refrigerator. A few cookies, some crackers, some cans of soup.
There was no pancake mix. Cora hadn’t expected there would be.
In the next cupboard, Cora found what she was looking for.
A bottle of maple syrup.
Chapter
56
“Hi, Chief. Got a minute?”
“Why? What’s up?”
Cora reached in her purse, took out the bottle of maple syrup. “Can I get this tested for fingerprints?”
“Where did you get that?”
“That’s not important. Unless the fingerprints are. In which case, I won’t mind saying.”
“All right. Whose fingerprints are on it?”
“I really can’t say.”
“Cora.”
“Because I don’t know. I can tell you whose fingerprints I’d like to be on it.”
“Yeah? Who’s that?”
“Charlotte Guilford.”
“You’re hoping to find the fingerprints of the victim?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“So I’ll have something to talk about tonight.”
“What’s happening tonight?”
“I’m assembling the suspects at the Guilford house. You should probably be there.”
“Why are you assembling the suspects at the Guilford house?”
“To tell ’em who the killer is.”
“Who’s the killer?”
“I have no idea.”
“Cora.”
“But I’ll know more after you trace these prints.”
“But only if they’re Charlotte Guilford’s.”
“No, I’ll know more no matter whose they are. It would be nice if they were Charlotte Guilford’s. But I’ll take anything I can get. Just trace any fingerprints you find.”
“What if there aren’t any?”
“Then I’m going to look mighty foolish. I may even have to resort to Becky’s idea.”
“What’s Becky’s idea?”
“See who tries to kill me.”
Chapter
57
Sherry was feeding Jennifer in a highchair. Or rather Jennifer was feeding Jennifer in a highchair. Jennifer had taken control of the spoon lately, and the resultant chaos was dramatic. Every now and then some food actually got in her mouth.
“You should issue people raincoats to watch her eat,” Cora said.
“That would take some of the fun out of it,” Sherry said.
“You find this fun?”
“Buddy does. He’s getting half her dinner.”
“Mostly in his fur. I think she’s aiming for him. If so, she’s pretty good.”
“So what’s up tonight? Aaron called, said he wouldn’t be home. When I asked him why, he said to ask you.”
“I’m throwing a little shindig at the Guilford house. Jennifer’s a little young or I’d invite you.”
“Aaron said you had something in mind. But he didn’t know what it was.”
“That’s because I don’t know either.”
“Are you serious?”
“Only partly. I’ve got hunches. Not enough to prove anything. Just enough to hang myself.”
Jennifer hit Cora in the face with a spoonful of glop.
“Is that egg?” Cora said, wiping off her cheek with a well-stained dish towel. “It would be fitting. That’s what I’m going to have tonight. Egg on my face.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Why? The worst that can happen is I make a fool of myself, get sued for slander, and someone tries to kill me. I’ve had worse dates than that.”
The phone rang.
“Don’t get up,” Cora told Jennifer. “I’ve got it.”
Cora went in the kitchen, answered the phone. “Hello?”
“Cora. Chief Harper.”
“Well?”
“We got it.”
“And?”
“It’s Charlotte Guilford’s fingerprints, all right.”
“Jackpot! Anyone else’s?”
“Yeah, but it’s not what you wanted.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s none of your suspects.”
“Oh?”
“It’s not Edith Guilford. It’s not Sebastian Guilford. It’s not Alan Guilford. It’s not Arlene Winnington.”
“You have all their fingerprints?”
“Sure. We printed Edith when we were trying to see who touched the carafe. Alan gave us his prints. Sebastian didn’t, but he has a record. Arlene also refused, but she has a record, too.”
“Really?”
“Pot bust. Pled no contest, paid a fine. Some public defender trying out his training wheels.”
“You really have a cynical side, Chief.”
“Well, it would be nice if something in this damn case panned out. This print will probably turn out to be the grocery clerk in the Stop and Shop, who sold Charlotte the bottle of maple syrup.”
“You could be right. Anyway, when you show up at the Guilfords’ tonight, you might want to bring Henry Firth.”
“Why?”
“In case you’re wrong.”
Chapter
58
Cora Felton, dressed in her finest “Miss Marple” outfit—a white blouse, tweed skirt, and matching jacket—stood in front of the hearth and surveyed the gathering in the Guilfords’ spacious living room.
Edith Guilford sat in a straight-back armchair with a shawl around her shoulders, looking like a cross between the family matriarch and a frail old woman the slightest breeze might blow away.
Barney Nathan sat beside her, his medical bag open, ready, willing, and able to administer a sedative should the occasion arise.
Edith’s nephew Sebastian sat solicitously by, managing to simultaneously project a warm concern for her and an insolent disdain for everyone else.
Alan Guilford sat on the couch, flanked by Becky and Arlene. Cora figured if he managed to get a word in edgewise, it would be a minor miracle.
Chief Harper sat across the room with Henry Firth, who was obviously extremely unhappy to be there, and looked as if he might bolt at any moment.
Aaron Grant sat in the very back of the room and tried to fade into the woodwork.
Cora walked out and placed a small end table in the center of the room. Heads turned. Conversations stopped. By the time she was finished, everyone in the room was watching her.
Cora surveyed her work, found it to her approval. Without a word she turned, walked back to the fireplace, and resumed her position.
There was an uneasy silence.
“What’s that for?” Sebastian said.
Cora raised one finger. “Ahhh! I was wondering who would be the one to ask me that. It turned out to be you. Interesting.” She nodded knowingly. “I need it for my presentation. We’ll get to it in a while.” She shrugged. “I suppose I could put my purse on it, but when you’ve got a gun in your purse, you hate to leave it lying around.”
Cora smiled at the gathered assembly. “Before we begin, would anyone like a glass of elderberry wine?”
There was a stunned silence. She continued, “Probably not. But it’s as good a place to start as any. Someone poisoned the Guilford sisters’ wine. A lodger drank it and died. A prowler drank it and died. Two other lodgers also died. And finally Charlotte Guilford. Since then the killings have ceased. Did everyone notice that? Since the murder of Charlotte Guilford there have be
en no attempts on anyone else’s life. The question is, why?
“There is an obvious answer, which we must examine. In a case like this, the most obvious answer is often true. That answer, of course, is that Charlotte Guilford was the intended victim all along. That with her death, the crime is complete.
“Is there anything to support this theory? Well, Charlotte is not a lodger or an intruder, she is an owner of the house. As such, she is important. And with her death the killings apparently stop.
“Is there any reason to doubt that theory? Any contradictory facts? There is nothing readily apparent. And yet, there are tiny seeds of doubt.
“What are they?
“For that, we must go back to the beginning and examine these crimes. First up is the lodger who drinks the wine served at tea and expires on the floor. A perfectly ordinary man, who to all appearances wouldn’t harm a fly. Who is he and why was he killed? Amazingly, both questions are equally hard to answer. The man had no identification on him whatsoever. Attempts to trace him have been futile. His fingerprints are not on file, apparently he has never been arrested for a crime. He would appear to be exactly what he seems. An elderly man who just happened to get poisoned.
“Why has he no identification on him? The obvious answer is, the killer took it. Without going into why the killer might do that, not to mention how, the problem is, that answer’s just not good enough. He not only has no identification on him, but there is no other way he can be traced. He does not have a car. He appears to have taken a cab from the Danbury bus station, but even that is not certain. It is possible he came to Danbury on a bus from New York, in which case he could have flown into LaGuardia, JFK, or Newark on any airline from any city in the United States. Or abroad, for that matter. Wherever he came from he left no trail, and the name he checked in under is most likely not his own.
“Could a killer arrange all that? Certainly not after the crime. The killer might be able to lift the guy’s wallet, but to erase every trace of his life? It could only be done by the man himself.
“So, all evidence to the contrary, this simple, ordinary man is not who he seems.
“Which is too bad. Because a man like that is much more likely to be the killer than the victim.”