The Connecticut Corpse Caper

by Tyler Colins

  “You seemed to have had a good night of sleep,” Rey commented dully. “How can you be tired?”

  “There's being physically tired … and there's being mentally and emotionally tired.”

  “You know, sharing mental and emotional burdens can lessen the weariness,” Linda advised nonchalantly, piling coffee-soaked paper towels on a plate. “It's like when you confess to a priest. You feel uplifted.”

  “And burden-free? I'm not Catholic, although I believe a few of the Fonnes converted over the years. But I'll consider it.” She chuckled, then brightened, and glanced at the sardine clock. “Later on, we'll order Caesar salads and two or three types of pizzas. Benton's parlor has probably reopened now. He makes the best in the state.”

  * * *

  Quarter of six found us in the drawing room. Linda and I were seated on opposite sides of the long sofa, my legs hooked over an armrest, hers on an ottoman. Rey reclined in one of the plush armchairs. The room was dim, the only light courtesy of a roaring fire. My cousin was indulging in rye-and-ginger with slices of lime, Linda a large snifter of Grand Marnier, and I a smooth, easy-drinking Australian merlot. Anyone viewing the scene would have thought: what a simple and pleasant way to spend an early Wednesday evening.

  Despite the warmth from the fire and alcohol, our faces looked as glum now as they had when we'd entered the room fifteen minutes ago.

  “Do you think she's having a fitful lie-down?” Linda asked, sucking on a maraschino cherry, the fourth of eight she'd plopped into the orangey brandy.

  “You mean a guilt-free lie-down?” Rey's asked tartly.

  “She saw through the lame attempts at depicting Prunella Sayers' diaries,” I said flatly.

  “Ya think?” Linda asked drolly as she got up and refilled the snifter.

  “Mind, hon?” Rey held out her empty rocks glass and Linda saw to her bidding.

  “I wonder what she'll do with them,” I mused aloud.

  “Hopefully she won't go to Lewis,” Linda murmured.

  “It was bad enough to be lectured about intruding and tampering-with-evidence charges,” Rey declared with a sulky face. “Can you see us explaining our efforts as diaryists to the sheriff, without sounding as crazy as Prunella?”

  I could see the man's grave face when he'd tramped into the Sayers kitchen earlier. I didn't believe for one second he'd actually have thrown the book at us, but I was sure he'd have had no qualms about locking us up behind bars for several hours to teach a lesson.

  “It was kind of humiliating,” Linda acknowledged, passing Rey a filled-to-the-rim glass that looked more like rye than ginger. Her snifter was a few fingers deep, too.

  Rey snorted and sank lower into the armchair, relaxing like someone finally relieved of a big burden. “But it's over now … even if Aunt Mat won't confess to anything.”

  “It won't ever truly be over, but let's just sit back and enjoy this quiet time,” Linda recommended.

  I got the bottle of merlot and filled my crystal goblet nearly to the brim. If ever there was an occasion to be mentally and physically numbed – okay, blottoed – this seemed to be it.

  “You'd think she'd be nervous or something, knowing we believe she's involved.” Rey looked bemused.

  I watched the crackling fire in the grand Citizen Kane fireplace, wishing I were back home in Wilmington. The last twenty-four hours had left a taste as bitter as dandelion greens in my mouth. “She's a calm and wise lady, and calculating without question. Not a lot would affect or throw her.”

  “All the more reason to leave the game a winning loser than a lost winner,” May-Lee avowed.

  We turned to find the antiques shopkeeper standing in front of closed doors. Odd that we'd not heard them shut. Too engrossed in our own silly selves, no doubt. As always May-Lee was dressed smartly, this time in gray flannel pants, pink wool turtleneck, patent leather studded ankle boots, and a cashmere trenchcoat, buttons and belt undone. A textured cloche was perched on her head, and to complete the ensemble, a Webley MkIV gripped in one hand.

  Rey's “whoa Nelly” and Linda's “dang” collided with my “damn”.

  “Are you heading off somewhere or dropping by for a casual chat?” I asked blandly once the shock passed.

  “I'll leave it for you blundering detectives to discover.” She grinned. “You'd do the Three Stooges proud, my dears.”

  “The Three Stooges? Us?” Rey huffed.

  “You're quite the comedic trio. Linda's Curly: childlike with a hint of charm. Rey, you'd be Moe: always smart-alecky, slapping and poking your friends with retorts and sarcasm when they don't see your way. Jill, you're Joe Besser, the only one who dared hit Moe in reprisal and put him in his place.”

  If Rey had had enough hair to flip, it would have covered her entire face. Instead her short spikes shifted from left to right and then stood up straight again, like daisies being caught in an erratic gust. I could only gape, while Linda's lips remained adhered to the snifter, her eyes plum-round.

  The attractive woman smiled self-consciously. “My father loved those three. He grew up with them and, consequently, so did I.”

  Amazement evolved into concern and Linda gestured the weapon. “You're holding that gun because … you're going to kill us?”

  “No, I'm not. Well, not if I don't have to.” She appeared contemplative. “They'll figure out it was me if I do, but if I don't, you'll inform the sheriff. Either way I'm screwed… . But no, unless I'm provoked, I won't kill you. The 'death list' is growing a bit long.”

  “Seeing as we'd prefer to remain breathing, how do we not provoke you?” I asked crisply.

  “Simply remain calm and everything will be fine,” she responded sweetly.

  Rey resembled a badger ready to lunge. “Why return to the scene of the crime, uh, crimes? I'm guessing you're involved in some way?”

  May-Lee chuckled. “Foolishly enough, I left my wallet here. I'd forgotten I'd tucked it in the bottom of the chest of drawers in my room. I won't get far without it. My life's in there.”

  “You didn't come just to get your wallet, did you?” I asked. “You wanted to know how Aunt Mat had reacted to the diaries.”

  “And maybe tell us you're Prunella's partner,” Linda added, regarding the woman closely.

  “The wallet was my priority. I'd simply intended to sneak upstairs to get it, which I did, but then, yes, curiosity began nagging me. It started when Sheriff Lewis dropped by the shop to ask how my fingerprints happened to be on Deputy Malle's notebook.” She leaned into the sideboard and smiled prettily. “I offered a viable reason, which he accepted.”

  Rey exhaled softly. “He can be a trusting soul, but then, why would he doubt a successful, community-minded businesswoman?”

  “Why were they on there?” Linda asked curiously. “Why would he have yours on file?”

  “I was the one who tucked it in Wolfgang,” May-Lee explained with a lame shrug. “My fingerprints were on file because of a B&E that happened three years ago at the shop … and a little tussle with one of the robbers, who managed to get his foolish self stuck in a pillory. Curiosity can be such a bitch.” She chuckled. “They took my fingerprints at the time to weed out the non-guilty from the guilty.”

  “So, you are … were Prunella's partner. Why place Wolfgag in the pantry?” Linda persisted.

  “I don't like the word 'partner', because that would mean I also assisted with the murders and other schemes – well, I suppose I did. Still, I don't like thinking of myself as her partner,” she replied nonchalantly and shrugged. “Putting Wolfgang in the pantry was part of the game. Prunella's. I thought it silly, but she felt it was a worthwhile taunt, a fun little 'head' game.”

  “Game?” Rey, Linda and I asked in chorus, surprised.

  “Her mind works a bit differently from the norm, as we know,” she said with a tired smile. “She found it quite hysterical.”

  “You know, if you'd not come here today, no one would have been the wiser about your involvement,” I po
inted out.

  The shop owner tilted her head one way and then the other. “Maybe for a day or two. But Prunella wouldn't have allowed me to get away with anything if she was, among other things, going to be arrested on multiple murder charges. She may not reveal her involvement in everything, but she'd certainly reveal mine. I'm screwed, no matter what, so confessing my role is neither here nor there.” She offered another tired smile. “But I'd rather you learn the truth – the real one – from me. Her truth will consist of out-and-out fabrications.”

  Linda drew a long bracing breath. “It must have been you who informed Sheriff Lewis we'd be at the Sayers.”

  She seemed to stifle a yawn.

  Rey tossed back half her drink. Great. Retraction: now was not the time to be blottoed.

  “So, Mrs. Moone had nothing to do with any of ths?” Linda's Grand Marnier disappeared. Wunderbar. Now we had two-and-a-half drunks and one clear-headed killer.

  “Mathilda Moone is guilty of only one thing, besides being eccentric. Like Augustus Lewis, she's too trusting.”

  “And you pay back that trust – and kindness and generosity – by setting her up,” I said coolly.

  She waved the top-break revolver. “The police, slow as they can be, would have figured it out eventually should it have come to an arrest. She'd not have been on the hook for long.”

  “Do you mind if I get up?” I rose slowly and stretched, my thoughts racing. How would we extricate ourselves from this nasty dilemma? Unfortunately, the only thing that came to mind – charging the shop owner like bulls during the annual Pamplona run – didn't seem the best or most rational course of action. I stepped alongside the hearth and scanned the expansive room. It had no solutions to offer.

  “Why obscure those pretty faces? Turn on the tall lamp, will you Jill?” May-Lee requested cordially.

  Linda held up a hand like a keen town-hall attendee. “I have a question!”

  May-Lee looked happy to play the Q&A game. “Yes, Ms. Royale?”

  “This is undoubtedly an inane question at this point, but for the record: who killed Thomas Saturne?”

  “Prunella, of course. She truly was enraged at having been dumped by the man. She loathes not having the upper hand. Vengeance is always hers. I don't believe she has ever lost – at anything. And yes, she was in on the pilfering with Thomas. They'd set up some shell companies overseas several years ago with different purposes. Porter assisted later on – and yes, she had coerced that assistance, but he was handsomely compensated for his services. The illicit dealings were extremely lucrative, but as happens with most thieves, the devious duo grew greedier with time. They didn't know when to stop. Poor Porter had no choice but to schlep along.” She appeared fleetingly woeful.

  Rey finished her drink and spoke to the empty glass. “How did you two bond? Prunella and you didn't care for each other, that was obvious. Or was that the master plan: to give the impression you were repelled by each other?”

  “We've hated each other since Percival and I'd first started seeing each other. She had a thing for him long before he did her. At the time, I simply thought she was an over-protective sister – excuse me, half sister. It took only a few weeks after the divorce to realize how besotted with him she was.” Slowly, she moved to the chaise longue, removed the cloche, tucked it into a pocket, and sat primly, like a lady at an English manor engaging in high tea. Her hands were remarkably steady, as was her gaze. “That zany woman had tried to drive a wedge into our relationship the moment she'd heard about our first date.” She smiled with rue. “Too bad she'd not tried more diligently.”

  “But you and Prunella did have a bond,” I prompted.

  “Yes. A purely financial one.”

  “What? You're going to have us beg for details?” Linda asked when the woman ceased speaking, her expression waffling between disbelief and amusement. I suspected the latter was brought on by the Grand Marnier, but maybe she found the entire scene darkly humorous.

  May-Lee chuckled. “One weekend during a Mathilda Moone extravaganza, I couldn't sleep, so I decided to stroll around the house. I came across an open door – the den, as I recall – and Prunella and Thomas were arguing over who should handle a Byzantine bronze phalera. Naturally, my ears perked. I know, listening into private conversations is boorish, but I was captivated and heard enough to comprehend what was going on. As I was about to return to my room, I saw them embrace and kiss. It was disturbing, to say the least.” She shuddered. Was she referring to the crime or the kiss?

  “So you confronted her?”

  “I kept an eye on her and started poking around. After several weeks I'd uncovered enough to present her with details. I wanted a cut. The money would enable me to buy more pieces for the shop and travel overseas and all that. I wasn't being overly greedy. Really.”

  “I suppose the fact you had exploitable connections in the ways of antique dealers, warehousing, and shipping helped influence Prunella's decision to cut you in,” I proposed.

  May-Lee smiled like someone who'd won a one-thousand-dollar wager. “She did see the logic and merit of accepting the proposition.”

  “Was Percival in on it?” Rey asked, leaning forward. Her eyes were glazed, but her bearing and disposition appeared solid.

  “Not to his knowledge. Prunella did use a couple of his companies for certain undertakings and cover-ups, but he wasn't any wiser for it.”

  Sporting similar measuring expressions, the three of us crossed arms simultaneously and surveyed May-Lee's cheerful countenance. While we resembled three travelers awaiting a long-delayed flight, May-Lee Sonit could have been sitting in a lounge or bistro, awaiting the arrival of a frothy, chilled cocktail.

  31

  Going for It

  “No more questions?” May-Lee's Joan Crawford lips drew into a Cruella De Vil smile. “I'd have thought you'd be bursting at the seams to learn everything.”

  Rey's tone was brackish. “We don't want to seem over-eager.”

  The shop owner's laughter held a theatrical resonance; she could have been a glee-filled villainess thrusting a dagger into a victim's heart during the climax of a play. Was she doing it for show? Or was she as unhinged as her hospitalized partner?

  “Oh, what the hell. I'll go for it,” Linda announced, executing her best friend's dramatic flair. “Prunella made sure Thomas died three ways. Did you help?”

  “The monetary incentive to help was too great to refuse.”

  “She administered the quinapril, am I right?” Linda continued.

  “Yes Curly.” May-Lee grinned. “It was easy enough to accomplish, but she wasn't sure the dosage was enough to cause fatal damage, so when the moment presented itself, she slipped Poison Hemlock into a beverage.”

  “Then to be on the safe side, she shot him with a blowgun,” Linda added with a Cousin Rey snort.

  May-Lee shrugged. “That's Prunella Sayers – always wanting to ensure a one-hundred-and-twenty-five per cent success rate.”

  “Of all weapons, why a blowgun? Where'd she learn to use one?”

  “She'd gone on a few South American bird-watching expeditions. She learned the art in Brazil, I believe. Being the woman she is –”

  “The nutso she is,” Rey interjected.

  “Being the woman she is, she opted for a blowgun. It was a more challenging and entertaining murder weapon than a conventional gun or knife, and less detectable.”

  “If there'd been no Poison Hemlock or quinapril overdose, and that miniscule mark on the neck had gone unnoticed – and subsequently the curare not detected – Thomas' death may well have been tagged a natural one.”

  Linda grinned. “Would you care to run that by one more time, Jill?”

  “I couldn't if I tried,” I confessed with a slim smile and turned back to our keeper. “Who removed the dart? You?”

  She nodded once.

  “Did she put the blowgun in the shoebox and hide it in the room upstairs?”

  “It was a spur of the moment decis
ion and that room seemed as good as any place to leave the box until it could be properly retrieved and disposed of.”

  “Did Percival see either of you doing your thing?” Rey asked.

  She nodded again. “He did notice Prunella and I exchange a few quick words, which surprised him, but he didn't mention it until much later.”

  “When he realized what he might have seen?” Linda prompted.

  A third nod.

  Linda and Rey glanced at each other before the scriptwriting assistant asked, “The know-how regarding the biennial herb came from one of Percival's articles – maybe the one I read recently?”

  “A book, actually.” May-Lee crossed her legs and settled back.

  I started to say, “The one on poisons and herbs that was removed from the library –”

  “And resulted in a clunk to Aunt Mat's head,” was finished by Rey. “Plus a handkerchief soaked with a dangerous chemical placed to the face.”

  “Prunella had run upstairs for something or other and saw the door ajar, and Matty in the room, perusing the book. It was crucial to get it right then and there, not because of the pages devoted to that herbaceous plant, but because Prunella had left sticky notes in there … or thought she had. As it turned out, she'd hastily, if not clumsily, tucked them into the latest copy of Bird Watcher's Digest.” The sigh and tone expressed irritation. “All that panic for naught. I mean really.”

  “Who poisoned Gwynne?”

  May-Lee offered the slightest of smirks. “Besides being overly nosey, the man rubbed Prunella the wrong way.”

  “He rubbed most of us the wrong way,” I responded wryly. “Say, do you know anything about the cigarette butt in the corridor? Did Percival remove it to cover his tracks?”

  “No, as I said, Percival had nothing to do with any of the goings on here. It was Porter's. He'd dropped it the last time he was down there. That Davidoff stub could have easily been traced back to him, so Prunella retrieved it as soon as possible. She wanted to keep him out of any potential spotlights.”

  “Huh?” Rey squeaked. “None of us even knew he smoked.”