Murder, My Suite

by Mary Daheim

  Their host was gone, the taxi pulling away and heading down the street with the packing crate tied on top of the vehicle. Judith and Renie stood on the balcony, watching Esme and his belongings disappear down the curving street.

  “He’s never coming back,” Judith said glumly.

  Renie mumbled assent. “We can’t leave town, but Esme can? What’s wrong with this picture?”

  Judith grimaced, then wandered back inside the apartment. “Everything. I wonder if Rhys Penreddy really does know that Esme is fleeing the country.”

  “Maybe we should tell him,” Renie suggested. “He’s probably still on duty.”

  Judith nodded in a distracted manner. Seeing the open liquor cabinet with its collection of bottles, she was tempted to accept Esme’s offer. But their host’s defection was her priority.

  “Let’s stop at the police station before we go to the clinic,” she said, touching her handbag, where the telltale phone bill was now reposited. “As I recall, the medical center is just a couple of doors from the cops.”

  Renie nodded, following Judith around the living room. “Well?” Renie inquired. “Are we going to search this place first?”

  Judith studied the living room, now devoid of its personality. Sofa, chairs, table, and liquor cabinet didn’t seem to offer much evidence of Esme MacPherson. A glance at the notepad next to the telephone revealed only more names of thoroughbred racehorses: Winning Colors, Northern Dancer, Spectacular Bid, Danzig Connection. Vaguely, Judith thought they sounded like winners. Maybe Esme had made enough off his gambling to stake his move. Wandering into the bedroom, the bathroom, and the tiny kitchen, Judith peeked in closets, drawers, cupboards, and even under the bed. She found nothing of interest.

  “It’s useless,” she declared. “Esme’s taken everything that might have been helpful. I don’t get it. He’s cleared out with all his worldly belongings.” On a weary sigh, she started for the door.

  But Renie had paused. “Not quite,” she noted, forcing Judith to turn around.

  Lying on the floor, flush with the wall, was Esme MacPherson’s walking stick. Judith stared, made a move to pick up the stick, then hastily retreated. She arched an eyebrow at Renie.

  “Did he leave us without a clue?”

  Renie’s expression was uncertain. “I wonder. Did he?”

  Judith broke into a grin. “I think not. Let’s call the cops.” She moved quickly to the phone and dialed Rhys Penreddy’s number.

  SEVENTEEN

  RHYS PENREDDY GRUDGINGLY agreed to meet the cousins. Yes, he knew that Esme MacPherson was flying to London. No, he didn’t care if the old sot ever came back. What did Esme have to do with Agnes Shay’s death and the attempt on Dagmar Chatsworth’s life? Esme swore he hadn’t met either of the women. Coming out of her stupor, Dagmar had confirmed the statement. Or at least had given a qualified version: She had never met Esme MacPherson; she very much doubted that Agnes had, either, but anything in life was possible.

  Judith remained in Esme’s favorite chair while Renie sprawled on the mohair sofa. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad to hear Dagmar is talking again,” Judith remarked as they waited for the police chief. “At least I think I’m glad.” She gave Renie an ironic look.

  “Are you going to trot out your theory for Penreddy?” Renie inquired, idly leafing through a racing magazine that Esme had left behind.

  “Not yet,” Judith replied, getting up and going to the window. “I want to see what he thinks about the walking stick.” She stared outside for a long moment, then returned to the bedraggled old armchair. “I keep expecting Esme to come back and collect the stick. Maybe I’m wrong.” Once more she pulled her fingers through her hair in frustration.

  Renie was smiling fondly, if wryly, at her cousin. “Look, Ms. Logic, try writing down your ideas. That always helps me when I’m putting together a design concept. Contrary to Tessa’s belief, graphic artists can read.”

  Judith decided to humor Renie, and picked up Esme’s notepad and a pencil. “I’m still sticking to the idea that Agnes was not murdered by mistake.” She started to tear off the top sheet of paper, then frowned. “This is strange. I’m no racing expert, but the only social and cultural outings Dan and I attended were at the track. I still have nightmares about the rent money coming in dead last.”

  Renie put both feet up on the sofa. “So what’s strange? Other than Dan, that is.”

  Judith waved the slip of paper. “These horses. Spectacular Bid goes way back, to the late seventies. I remember, because we had a Happy Hour drink special at The Meat & Mingle called Spectacular Bib. We served it in a dribble glass, and the customers had to wear something over their clothes or they got all wet.”

  “The Meat & Mingle’s clientele spilled their drinks with regular glasses,” Renie remarked. “So what?”

  Judith ignored Renie’s sarcasm. “So nobody’s betting on a horse that’s been out to pasture for years. Shoot, Northern Dancer won the Derby the year we were in Europe. Don’t you remember reading about it in The New York Herald-Tribune?”

  Renie grew serious. “I do, actually. We were in Rome the first weekend of May.”

  “Winning Colors is more recent, I think, and Danzig Connection doesn’t ring any bells.” Judith had become excited. “What were those other names—the ones on the pad when we were here yesterday?”

  Renie thought back to her perusal of Esme’s notes. “Montreal Marty—I remember that because of Cousin Marty, who is almost but not quite as smart as a dumb animal. Oh, Genuine Risk—that’s a famous one. But not very recent, either. I forget the other two. Is there a wastebasket around here?”

  There was, in the kitchen. There was also one in the bedroom. But both had been emptied. Judith, however, was undaunted.

  “Let’s try the old trick of running a pencil over the sheet underneath to see if we can get an impression,” she suggested. “Esme writes with a surprisingly firm hand.”

  The four thoroughbred names from the top sheet were easy to decipher; the other four from the discarded page were more difficult.

  “It’s awfully faint,” Renie noted. “I can just barely make out Genuine Risk.” She put on her teal-rimmed glasses, the lenses of which always seemed to be scratched and smeared. Judith never failed to marvel that Renie’s vision wasn’t impaired, even with the aid of her glasses.

  “Ah!” Renie exclaimed. “I can see Counterpoint. And I remember that the other one was a single name like that, Middleground. I never heard of them,” she added in apology.

  “Me, neither.” But Judith was still animated. “These names aren’t for betting purposes. They’re a code.”

  Renie’s startled expression changed quickly to appreciation. “Ha! I’ll bet you’re right! But a code for what?” Her smile faded as she removed her glasses and dumped them haphazardly in her handbag.

  “Good point.” Judith had now written all of the thoroughbreds’ names on a clean piece of notebook paper. “Montreal Marty and Danzig Connection suggest Canada and Eastern Europe. What’s the tie-in?” She gazed at Renie, waiting for an answer.

  “Ice Dreams? But what’s Esme got to do with it?”

  “I’ve no idea. Yet,” Judith mused, staring again at the list. “If we’re on the right track, Spectacular Bid could refer to the deal itself. Or maybe that could be Genuine Risk.” She sighed. “Whatever it means, Esme was in the thick of things. I wonder who—and what—he really is.”

  “Let’s ask,” said Renie as the doorbell sounded.

  Rhys Penreddy was alone, and wore a beleaguered expression. There were sweat stains on his uniform, his auburn hair had lost its usual crispness, and his broad shoulders slumped ever so slightly.

  “It’s just after five,” he said irritably, “and I’m officially off duty. Make this brief, eh?”

  Judith pointed to the walking stick, which the cousins had left exactly as they had found it. “Esme MacPherson bequeathed us a souvenir. What do you think?”

  At f
irst, it seemed that Penreddy didn’t think much of Esme’s memento. Then he leaned down, scrutinizing the heavy silver horse-head and the hard ebony wood. A spark of interest showed in his eyes as he turned back to the cousins.

  “What leads you to believe that this might be the weapon used to kill Agnes Shay?”

  Judith paused, then glanced at Renie for a sign of support. Renie gave a faint nod of affirmation. “It’s hard to explain,” Judith said tentatively. “That’s because I don’t know who Esme MacPherson really is. Look.” She produced the slips of notepad paper. “Supposedly, these are racehorses. But we think they’re a code. Something to do with Ice Dreams, maybe.” She turned a hopeful face to the police chief.

  Scanning the list, Penreddy registered no emotion. With a peremptory gesture, he confiscated the three pieces of paper. Then he used a clean handkerchief to pick up the walking stick.

  Irked by the police chief’s lordly manner, Judith started to object, then realized it would do no good. “I doubt you’ll find any useful prints on the stick,” she said, still annoyed. “Esme has used it since the murder.”

  Penreddy remained self-possessed. “If this was the weapon, we might find something else. Hair and fibers, for example. We’ll run it through the lab.”

  Judith was rummaging in her handbag, searching for the phone bill. “I don’t know what this means,” she began almost shyly as she handed him the sheaf of charges, “but last Thursday morning, somebody from my B&B on Heraldsgate Hill called a local number. Do you know if it’s the ice rink?”

  Penreddy examined the bill, then took a small address book from his back pocket. He nodded once. “It’s the rink, all right.” He studied the bill some more, now flipping through the multiple pages. “Your monthly billing cutoff date was last Friday, I see. You must have just received this.” His expression had grown thoughtful. “You certainly make a lot of long-distance calls, Ms. Flynn. All over the globe, it seems.”

  Judith grimaced. “Those aren’t my calls. Not the foreign ones. Mine are only to Yakima, Hoquiam, Corvallis, Eureka, Boise, and Appleton, Wisconsin. Somebody else used my phone.” Noting that Penreddy didn’t look convinced, Judith pointed jerkily at the multipage printout. “See for yourself—they were all made within the time frame that Dagmar and her party stayed at Hillside Manor. I think one of the Chatsworth people phoned Mia Prohowska with blackmail in mind. Go ahead, ask her about the call she got right after she finished the Ice Dreams tour.”

  “Ask her?” Penreddy was bemused. “Ms. Prohowska’s in seclusion. A nervous collapse, we’re told. The next thing we know, she’ll also be a patient at the local clinic. You people seem to be causing an epidemic around here.” Without any farewell gesture, he exited the apartment, taking the walking stick and Judith’s phone bill with him.

  “Dink,” Renie muttered. “The least he could do is thank us for calling him.”

  Judith was trying to calm herself, taking one last look around the apartment. “He evaded the question about Esme MacPherson. Why?”

  “Because he doesn’t know?” Renie closed the door behind them, making sure the lock clicked into place.

  “Penreddy knows more than he’s telling us,” Judith said, sounding discouraged as well as weary.

  “Do we know more than he does?” Renie asked as they descended the concrete stairs to street level.

  “Maybe,” Judith answered, but she didn’t sound very certain. “Let’s go see Dagmar.”

  The Bugler Clinic and Medical Center was small but up-to-date. Located across from the municipal hall, which also housed the police and fire departments, the two-story building looked as if the town had already outgrown it. Judith and Renie found themselves in a standing-room-only situation in the waiting area. A trio of parents with cranky children, an anxious elderly couple, and a young man with an ice pack on his knee filled the upholstered chairs.

  At the reception desk, Judith inquired after Dagmar Chatsworth. They were told that the patient was resting comfortably.

  “Would it be possible to see her for just a minute or two?” Judith asked in her most plaintive manner.

  The woman behind the desk eyed Judith over her half-glasses. “Are you kin?” she inquired with the trace of an accent.

  “Yes,” Judith replied.

  “No,” Renie answered.

  “We’re close friends,” Judith amended, stepping on Renie’s foot. “We were staying with her when the…mishap occurred.”

  “That part’s true,” Renie said. “In fact, my cousin here gave her the medicine that…ah…um…Ms. Chatsworth wanted.”

  The woman was now regarding both Judith and Renie with skepticism. “I’ll check with the nurse,” she said abruptly, and reached for the telephone.

  To the cousins’ surprise, permission was granted. Beyond the sturdy steel doors, they were met by a tiny young Asian nurse.

  “Your kindness will do the patient good,” the nurse declared, leading the way past the examining cubicles and around the corner to the outpatient rooms. “She has had no visitors except a cute little man who came this afternoon.”

  “Mr. Whobrey?” Judith asked in surprise.

  The nurse nodded. “He brought flowers, too. We made room for them. Ordinarily, our patients don’t stay overnight. If they need extended care, we send them into Port Royal. But the doctor is making an exception with Ms. Chatsworth. We understand she not only became ill, but has suffered a very recent tragic loss.”

  Judith confirmed the nurse’s statement. A moment later, they were in Dagmar’s small but comfortable room. She was hooked up to several IVs and looked very sallow. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was labored. A big bouquet of white and yellow roses stood on the window ledge.

  The nurse retreated. Judith cleared her throat. There was no response from Dagmar. The cousins approached the bed, one on each side. Judith called Dagmar’s name. Her eyelids flickered open.

  “What?” The word was weak. “Oh! You!” She closed her eyes again.

  Judith chewed on her lower lip. She had rehearsed her speech several times in her mind, but now that she was face-to-face with Dagmar, reticence overcame her.

  “How are you?” she finally inquired, feeling foolish and inadequate.

  Dagmar’s polished nails pulled at the plain cotton hospital gown. “Dreadful. I almost died. Maybe it would be better if I had.”

  “Nonsense.” Judith found her tone flat, her own lips dry. She lowered herself into the sole visitor’s chair. Renie had moved the bouquet aside and was perched on the window ledge. “You know my cousin and I didn’t cause the poisoning.” Judith saw Dagmar nod in an indifferent fashion. “Have they learned what kind of poison was used?”

  Dagmar shuddered. “I don’t know the scientific name, but it’s commonly known as Aldrin. It’s a pesticide. Or so they think—the tests aren’t complete yet. I feel cheated. Imagine, antibug crystals in my sleeping capsules! How unglamorous! Whatever happened to arsenic and cyanide?”

  “They’re not easy to obtain,” Judith noted, wondering if Aldrin was readily available in Canada. “Household poisons are usually at hand and just as lethal. Can you tell us who had a hand in the Aldrin?”

  Dagmar’s eyes opened slowly. “I don’t know,” she declared in a querulous tone.

  Judith let the protest pass. “You know who sent those threatening letters.” She leaned closer to Dagmar, who recoiled. “You know a great deal, Dagmar. Let’s start with the letters. Maybe Agnes didn’t know how to use a word processor, but I’ll bet you do. Still, you probably can’t be jailed for mailing threats to yourself.”

  Dagmar drooped against the pillow. “That’s right, I can’t.” Abruptly, she squared her shoulders and thrust out her chin. “Shameless self-promotion—it’s not a crime. Authors have to help themselves.”

  Judith sat back in the chair. “So you figured if you received threatening letters, you could include yourself as a celebrity victim in your next book. What did you do, have someone mail them for you
from New York?”

  Dagmar turned smug. “I did. I actually managed to coax my publicist at Thor to do it for me. She didn’t know what was in the letters, of course. I told her they were memos I’d written myself but didn’t want cluttering my busy schedule. I should receive one more before I leave Bugler.” Taking in Judith’s disapproving expression, Dagmar waved a hand, almost upsetting the IV stand. “Oh, it’s not that I don’t get my share of hate mail! I do, but usually it’s such a mess. People who write bilge like that can’t spell or punctuate or put together a coherent sentence. I wanted something quotable. Ergo, I did it myself. It’s always the best way.”

  The point wasn’t arguable; Judith firmly believed it herself. “What about the phone calls you got at my B&B?” The question was barely out of her mouth before she realized the explanation.

  Dagmar, however, put it into words. “It was one of my sources. The message was brief and rather pointless. After she hung up, I got the brainstorm to embellish and pretend someone was still on the line, threatening me.” Her haggard face took on a spark of life. “Well? You fell for it, didn’t you? I was quite convincing.”

  Judith had to admit Dagmar was right. There had been no other calls, of course, except the one Judith had overheard. Dagmar had lied about them, and Joe had probably hung up on a billionaire from Tokyo.

  “Who used my phone to call Mia?” Judith demanded. “Was that you?”

  Dagmar’s eyelashes fluttered. “Mia? No, certainly not. Why would I call her?”

  Renie was finding the window ledge uncomfortable. She got up and wandered toward the bed. “Somebody in your party called Mia from Hillside Manor. Whoever it was had some ugly information about her—or Nat.”

  Dagmar snorted. “Oh, that! I’ve no idea. We’ve covered this ground before.”

  Judith was trying to gauge Dagmar’s reaction, which seemed genuine. “What about Boris Ushakoff?”