Two Birds with One Stone (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by Sigrid Vansandt

  Devry gave Johns a confused look. “I had gone up to my room. My head was killing me and I wanted to be done with the party. It was only when I heard the sirens coming up the road that I woke up.”

  “You had fallen asleep?” Johns asked.

  “I guess so because I remember coming to and hearing the noises outside. I got up and saw the ambulance and the party guests out on the lawn. I went downstairs and ran into Mrs. Thyme. She was frantic and she told me what had happened. I made a dash for the garden but they had already put Piers on the gurney.”

  “You never heard the shot?”

  “No. My windows were closed but my room is on the side of the house opposite the garden. I must have been sound asleep.”

  “I have one more question. Where did you go after you saw Cousins put into the ambulance?”

  “I went back upstairs to my room. The whole evening, well in fact, the last three days have been a great strain.”

  Johns had noticed how much of an effort the man had been making during the interview to repress some type of intense emotion. “Mr. Devry, why have the last few days been particularly stressful for you?”

  Devry took a deep breath and let it out.

  “Carissa is fragile and there are extenuating circumstances that have nothing to do with all of this but they are weighing on my mind…” Devry’s hands trembled.

  He looked up at Johns and quickly asked, “Do you have a cigarette?”

  “I don’t smoke but my sergeant does. Hey Cross! Come in here a minute,” Johns yelled.

  The sergeant came into the room. “Yes, Sir?”

  “Got a cigarette?” Johns asked.

  “Sure do, Sir.” Cross offered Johns his pack and Johns selected two from the middle.

  “Thanks. That’ll be all.”

  Johns offered Devry the cigarettes and handed him a lighter.

  Devry lit a cigarette and inhaled the smoke. He looked directly at Johns and smiled. “Thank you, Chief Inspector.”

  “I think we’re done here, but keep in mind, Mr. Devry, that this is a murder investigation and in the event we need to get in touch with you, it’s important you make yourself available. You do understand?”

  “Of course. I’ll leave my address. You have my number.” Devry got up. “No more questions then, Chief Inspector?”

  “No, not for now. I’ll have Sergeant Cross take your statement. We will also be taking a sample from your hands. Need to see if there’s any gun powder residue on you.”

  Johns said this last part while studying Devry’s face.

  Devry didn’t hesitate. “That’s fine. Do what you need to.”

  He stubbed out his cigarette, thanked Johns, and followed Sergeant Cross down the hall.

  Johns contemplated Devry’s retreating figure. It was time to check out some background stories. Best to start with Devry’s.

  Chapter 18

  HELEN SAT ON A CHAIR while Martha was comfortably propped up on a gurney in the middle of the radiology wing at the hospital in Wayford. Martha looked comfortable and content with herself. Since they had arrived, she had been charming people with her sweet smiles and referring to nurses as “Sweetie” and “Honey.” Martha liked to spread it on thick especially when there was a possibility for needles or painful procedures in her immediate future.

  Both she and Helen were feeling surprisingly energetic despite the exciting events of the previous evening.

  “Mrs. Littleword are you ready to go into your screening?” a young nurse asked. Martha noticed that she looked younger than Martha’s own daughter, Kate.

  “I am, Honey,” Martha said trying to exude cheerfulness.

  “Martha, I’m going to check on Piers while you’re in your screening. I’ll be back here before you come out. Do you need anything?” Helen asked.

  “No, you run along. I’ll see you in a bit. Oh yeah, give him a hug for me,” Martha said with a wink. “Might do you both some good.”

  “Oh good Lord.” Helen laughed.

  IT TOOK ABOUT TEN MINUTES of wandering down hallways and following arrows to find the critical patients. A nurse stopped Helen to ask if she needed help.

  “Yes, I’m looking for a gentleman brought in last night with a gunshot wound. His name is Piers Cousins. May I ask how he’s doing today?”

  “He’s stabilized and in a room on the second floor. The nurses upstairs will be able to let you know if he’s allowed visitors.”

  Helen took the elevator to the second floor and stopped at the nurses’ station which was being manned by a bulky woman in her sixties. Her short, grey hairdo was reminiscent of the fight promoter, Don King’s. She didn’t look up when Helen asked if she might visit Cousins but instead put her pen down with exaggerated slowness. Her firm manner clearly conveyed to Helen that she was attempting to bridle her annoyance.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ve told the last three women who wanted to visit Mr. Cousins,” she said with menace. “He isn’t ready for visitors but you can come back in the morning and get in line with the rest of his devotees if you wish.”

  Helen bridled at the haughtiness of the woman’s tone. She read “Edda Davis” on her name tag. Helen firmly put her purse down on the desk.

  “There is no reason to be snippy about it, Ms. Edda. I wanted to make sure he’s doing okay,” she said slowly back with one eyebrow arched.

  The short nurse stood up and Helen realized it wasn’t that she was short but that her chair was undersized. When the woman rose to her full height of around six feet, she was a formidable female.

  “My break is in…,” she looked down at her watch, “now. So, if you will excuse me.” She turned her broad, muscular back on Helen and marched out of the nurses’ area.

  Helen stood there with a slightly open mouth watching Ms. Edda’s departing backside. Relieved she hadn’t been put to any tests of courage, she stood there for a moment hesitating about what to do. She remembered how last night she had decided to be more adventurous. Taking stock of the situation, she made up her mind. Quickly looking over the counter, she noted Piers’ room number on the nurses’ assignment sheet and then swiftly moved down the hall.

  Finding his room, she peeked inside. There he was, asleep in his bed with tubes and machines everywhere. Helen wished she hadn’t intruded but then his eyes opened and his gaze locked with hers.

  “Helen?” he asked sleepily.

  “Yes, Piers. I wanted to see how you were doing. I’m not supposed to be here.”

  “Come in,” he said trying to sit up. “I won’t rat you out to Ms. Davis.”

  Helen came in and sat down near his bed. “How are you feeling? Are you sure this won’t tire you out?”

  He readjusted himself and winced when he had to move his upper body. “They patched me up. I was lucky because the bullet didn’t hit anything too important. I’ll have a great scar to impress the ladies with.” He winked at her.

  She laughed. “Honestly, Piers, I don’t think you need one more thing in your repertoire to impress women.”

  “Depends on the woman. Some are impressed with wealth and others with power. What impresses you, Helen?”

  “Integrity. Nothing sexier than integrity at this point in my life. But, you know, that’s the hardest quality to find sometimes. It’s not the mistakes that are made, it’s the character a person shows when they’re faced with their mistakes.”

  Piers studied her and smiled. “You’re a straight shooter, Helen. That can be disconcerting and certainly not in my field of experience with most women.”

  “Piers,” she said in a tone of complete honesty, “women, and men for that matter, sometimes let themselves be seduced by things that puff up their own egos. Like I said, you don’t need one more thing to impress the ladies. All that probably gets in the way of knowing you.”

  She said all this in a gentle, friendly manner, but Helen decided to throw him a bone to make him feel better. She laughed. “Okay. You’re handsome, rich, wonderfully well-mannered and now
you’ll have a great scar. You’re a stud. Feel better?”

  Piers’ face broke out into a big smile and he chuckled. “Ouch! Oh, that hurts. What are you trying to do? Kill me?”

  Helen’s smile melted to a thin line. “No. I’m not, but someone most definitely tried to last night. At least they made it look that way.”

  “What an odd thing to say, Helen.” Piers lay back on his pillow and shutting his eyes.

  Helen admired the lines of his face. With his eyes shut, he was easier to look at directly. “You never know, Piers, maybe they wanted to get you out of the way.”

  “Well, I don’t like their methods.”

  Helen was quiet for a moment. “Why didn’t you like Sir Carstons?”

  Piers’ eyes opened and flashed briefly with a note of hostility before sadness crept into his expression. Looking out into the sunny day, he said with vehemence, “Sir Alan Carstons was a vindictive, cruel man and he made innocent people pay for his insecurities and lack of a soul.”

  “Tell me how you really feel,” Helen said, caustically trying to defuse his anger.

  His face relaxed and he flashed those blue eyes at her.

  She quickly shifted tacks. “How did you ever get mixed up with him?”

  He didn’t immediately answer her, instead he pointed towards the other side of the room.

  “Helen, would you please bring me my wallet? It’s over on the table.”

  She retrieved the wallet. Once he held it, he presented her with a picture of a small boy about six years old. The lad was golden-haired and holding a bubble-making pipe. There were bubbles in the air around his flung-back head and open, smiling mouth. One pudgy hand grabbed at the floating bubbles.

  “A picture, they say, is worth a thousand words,” he said.

  She could imagine the sounds of a delighted child’s laughter and knew in an instant that it must be Piers’ child. “Yours?”

  “Yes, and no,” he said. “Suffice it to say, with Carstons’ death, my life at The Grange is easier, but I am not so sure what this means for my suit to have custody of my son.”

  “Your son? How does Carstons fit into that picture?”

  “Simply put, I had an affair with his beautiful and gentle wife, Emilia, and she became pregnant. I know the boy is mine but Carstons would never allow for a DNA test. I’ve been trying for years through every available legal channel to force his consent.”

  “What about the child’s mother? Isn’t the child with her?” Helen asked.

  “His name is Emerson. No, she’s dead. Emilia is dead. She died giving birth and I haven’t been allowed to see him.”

  Helen understood the tragedy of the situation. What if the child had been Piers’? What if Piers had killed Carstons to expedite his suit to get the child? Helen knew nothing could stand between her and her children. Granted, they were all grown, but what a horrible situation for both of the men not to mention the child who was still so young.

  “How did you get the picture?” she asked.

  “I paid a detective to find the park where his nanny takes him to play. Then I sat down and waited every day for two weeks. I pretended to read a paper while he blew bubbles only ten feet away. It was wonderful but also excruciating seeing him but not being able to be with him as his father. It made me even more determined to know him.”

  Then he added, “It was easy to get pictures.”

  “Did it make you want Carstons dead?” The words weren’t supposed to be said out loud. She slightly cringed at her own words.

  He didn’t look at her but continued to study the photo she had handed back to him. “Yes, I hated him. He was in his own way a murderer because he drained the life out of tender things.” He looked up at Helen. “I didn’t kill him, though, and I wouldn’t want his blood on my hands. Carstons was the kind of person who would be pleased if he was the reason you found yourself in hell.”

  Helen thought for a moment and then wanted to somehow make up for prying into his affairs. “Piers, I’m sorry. I hope things work out for you. You’ve got so much on your plate. Martha and I need to go back to Healy and wondered if we could pick up anything for you?”

  His mood brightened. “I would love my laptop. Also, see if Mrs. Thyme could send me a care basket. She makes the best potato soup in the world. The food here is terrible.”

  Helen thought to herself he was like a little boy who wanted a treat. It was impossible to resist. She patted his hand. “I’m on it, and by the way, when we go back to Healy I’m thinking about looking for the jerk who pushed Martha down the stairs.”

  “Do what?” Piers said sitting up in his bed. He winced and held his side, asking in a croaking voice, “Martha was pushed down the stairs?”

  “Go slow there, cowboy. Yeah, I should have dropped that bomb a bit easier, huh? After you were taken to the hospital, Martha went upstairs to get some aspirin. Someone came up from behind and pushed her. She’s fine though. No stopping Martha.” Helen smiled and shook her head.

  Piers laughed. “Yeah, Martha is a character. I wouldn’t want to be on her bad side. I think she would be the perfect defender of the weak. There’s a lot of heart there.”

  Helen cocked her head and gave him a warm smile and a tender look. “Piers Cousins, you are a sweet man.”

  “You say that like you weren’t sure before,” he said with a short laugh.

  “Be careful, Piers. Martha is on a mission and I’ve signed up, too. We are going to find the culprit who pushed her down the stairs. Who knows? Maybe we’ll find your villain, too.” She pointed to his bandaged wound.

  She picked up her purse, told Piers to take a long nap, then slipped out of the room.

  Making sure Ms. Edda wasn’t back from her lunch, she quickly walked toward the stairwell door. She made her way down the stairs to find Martha and maybe some well-deserved lunch.

  Chapter 19

  “DO YOU THINK HE MIGHT have killed Sir Carstons?” Martha asked while she busily unwrapped a sandwich from Harriet’s Tea Shop.

  “He certainly has a motive, don’t you think? But he says he didn’t do it.”

  “Yeah. I can’t imagine how hard it would have been to restrain myself from attacking Sir Carstons, if I had been in Piers’ shoes,” Martha agreed as she settled into her avocado and bacon sandwich.

  “I don’t think he killed him though. I wouldn’t be running an errand for a killer.”

  Martha gave Helen a sideways look. “Oh, sure you wouldn’t. Not even for an extremely good-looking killer?”

  Helen arched her eyebrows. “Martha, you don’t know me very well. I’m not a desperate woman.”

  “Okay, sweetie. I was teasing you. I know you have principles. But you have to admit that your gut feeling isn’t much to go on. Besides, if we were to find those security videos on his computer before he got hold of his laptop, then we would know whether or not he knocked off Carstons.”

  Helen’s reaction to this extremely brazen, if not unlawful, suggestion was subdued. She was driving Martha’s green Mini Cooper while Martha ate her sandwich. Bringing the car to a respectable stop, she turned and faced a munching Martha.

  “Martha,” Helen snapped. “Are you saying we should snoop through Piers’ laptop?”

  Martha dabbed daintily at the corners of her mouth and swallowed. “I’m trying to dispel any worries you might have about Piers by suggesting a possible way to find out if he’s a killer or not.”

  Helen put the car back into gear and drove again. “You have got to be kidding me? Martha, Piers had plenty of time to delete any videos of himself if he was the killer. But if you recall, he only remembered the security tapes after he was interviewed by the Chief Inspector.”

  “That’s true but it might have been an act.” Martha looked out into the grey day. “Okay, I guess we could always ask him if we can see them. If he gets touchy about it, then he’s probably hiding something. What do you say?”

  “I like it. Let’s do it,” Helen said as she pulled up in f
ront of Healy House.

  The front door was open, so they went inside. The house was quiet even though guests were still scattered about.

  “An attempted killing hasn’t run off too many of them,” Martha said under her breath.

  “The tournament is still going on so they probably have to stay,” Helen said as they walked towards the library which Piers used as his study and office.

  Once inside, they shut the door and located the laptop. Putting it into a satchel along with a power cord, they scanned the room but didn’t see anything else Piers might need.

  The next item on their list was to find Mrs. Thyme. They decided the best way to find her was to follow their noses which led them straight to the kitchen.

  There they found her in a heated conversation with the head chef, a small, portly gentleman of Mediterranean heritage. His white uniform and apron were immaculate and he stood proudly like a statue upon a riser allowing him to work at one of the huge, steel tables.

  “Senior Agosto, you must decide tonight’s desserts,” Mrs. Thyme said, stamping her foot. “I absolutely cannot put off knowing any longer. I have nine guests staying tonight and one couple is extremely fussy about the menu. It must be decided.”

  Looking down his proud, aquiline nose at her from his advantageous position on the riser, he said with haughty dignity, “I will not be bullied, Madam. Not by you and certainly not by one of your fussy guests.”

  Then at the end of his speech, his voice rose in a dramatic crescendo giving the impression of a martyred culinary saint. “I decide the dessert when it is time and it is not the time!”

  To put an absolute stop to any attempts at further discussion, he hopped down and hurriedly headed for the walk-in refrigerators. He stepped inside, turned around, and glared at her like a small irascible badger.

  “Senior Agosto. You are trying my last nerve. Come back here this minute!” Mrs. Thyme yelled after him.

  “No!” he yelled back. “You’re a pushy woman and you're disturbing my thoughts. The whole meal is threatened by your aggressive behavior. Leave me, woman, while there is still time for me to regain my composure.” With a flourish, he pulled the refrigerator door closed with a slam, effectively ending the debate.