Murder at the Falls

by Arlene Kay

  “Phooey,” Babette said. “That man adores you. He’s obsessed with you. Trust me on that. I can tell. All he needs is a little push.” Her smug smile raised all sorts of danger signs.

  “Back off,” I said as forcefully as I could. “Focus on your own love life for a change. Last time I looked you were still single.” It was a low blow, but an effective one. Since her divorce from the perfidious Carleton Croy, Babette had lived the single life. It was not to her liking. Carleton, Babette’s husband number four, was no prize package, but she frequently bemoaned the loss of marital benefits and his abundant physical assets. Whenever she launched a paean to his manly parts, I used every trick in the book to block it out. Selective memory was a tricky thing. From her three elderly spouses, Babette had derived material comfort and big bucks. She was fond of saying that they died smiling all the way to eternity. Not so with Carleton, a faithless wretch who shared his splendor with most of her friends, berated her, and had no money at all.

  “I know you mean well,” I said, “but Pruett and I understand each other. Don’t push it. You’ll spoil everything.”

  Tenacity was one of Babette’s strengths and she didn’t yield easily. Fortunately, an unearthly screech from the barn distracted her and announced our visitor’s arrival. Zeke, an irascible pygmy goat, had very few virtues, but he rivaled a particularly piercing air raid siren as a noise alert. I always suspected that his vigilance had more to do with sheer selfishness than any protective instinct, but it served a useful purpose. Zeke was another rescue project who had absolutely no allegiance to me. Fortunately, since adding Raza, an Arabian mare, to my little brood, Zeke’s boorish behavior had improved. Maybe loneliness had caused his antics and exasperating refusal to act civilized. It was a reason, but not an excuse. Luckily for that shaggy pygmy, I overlooked his misdeeds in Pip’s honor. Like it or not, Zeke was mine for the duration.

  After a perfunctory rap on the door, Wing Pruett bounded into my home. No doubt about it, he had an aura that intimidated men and captivated any sentient female within a fifty-mile radius. It wasn’t just his physical presence, although that was considerable. Not many men possessed the body beautiful, perfectly molded features, and mounds of thick black hair, especially in our nation’s capital, where power, not sex appeal, was the ultimate aphrodisiac. Some wag had termed Washington, DC, “Hollywood for ugly people,” but a man like Wing Pruett could hold his own any place in any crowd. Why else would the Washingtonian dub him the sexiest man in Washington? As soon as I saw him, I deliberately powered down to neutral. Truth was tricky, my feelings for Wing Pruett complicated. When he said that he loved me, I wanted desperately to believe him, but common sense dictated that such a sultry superstar would probably move on to greener pastures someday. No need obsessing about that. Long ago I’d resolved to live in the moment and enjoy every second of his company. I maintained a cool, slightly bemused façade when our eyes locked. No sense in feeding that aura of entitlement that immersed Pruett.

  “Hey, ladies.” Pruett neatly evaded my dogs, planted a kiss on my cheek, and squeezed Babette’s hand. He was a work in progress when it came to animals, but with my help and the able assistance of his daughter Ella, Pruett had made great strides. You’ve got to love a man who acknowledged and conquered his worst fears.

  “I come bearing gifts. Got dessert for you,” he said, presenting a neatly wrapped box of treats from Georgetown Cupcakes. Immediately, Babette’s eyes widened. Sweets placed second only to sex in her personal pantheon. In view of her previous escapades it made sense to me. Sugar was much more accessible and less problematic than many of her romantic partners. Cupcakes never cheated on her, demanded alimony payments, or required a prenup. My pal swore that although the ecstasy of a sugar high was short-lived, it was well worth the glucose slump that followed. With Pruett around, I preferred to save the calories and go for the real thing.

  Babette immediately leaped up to play hostess. It was an automatic reflex even when she was in someone else’s home. “How about a barn burner, Wing? They’re my specialty, you know.”

  Pruett slid next to me on the couch, close enough for our arms to touch. I tried to forestall a full body flush by sipping cider, but it didn’t work. He pretended not to notice, although I was positive he had.

  “Sounds great,” he said. “I’ll just help Ms. Perri relax a bit.” His fingers nimbly unfastened the pins in my hair, causing it to cascade down my back. “Much better,” he murmured. “Your crowning glory unleashed.”

  Who could argue with a move like that? My hair was the one point of vanity I allowed myself. His touch didn’t transform me from a stodgy professional to a wanton woman, but I relished the contact. Somehow that relatively innocent act elevated my senses more than anything else he could manage in public view. I caught the satisfied glint in Babette’s eyes and looked away. Knowing her, she was already planning our honeymoon itinerary.

  Before getting down to business, we spent a few moments in companionable silence sipping our barn burners. I had to admit that the potent liquid warmed the cockles of my heart and several other spaces too personal to mention. Finally, Pruett put down his mug and retrieved his notebook. Even in the age of electronic gadgets, he preferred to go old-school when pursuing a story.

  “Okay,” he said. “Give me your take on Magdalen Melmoth. Delusional or merely complex?”

  I hesitated, but Babette plunged right into the fray. “My lady, Irene Wilson, vouches for her. They’re best friends and Magdalen confides in her. She didn’t know the specifics of this manuscript business, but she said it was something big.”

  Pruett donned his mask of inscrutability as he listened. That was de rigueur for him during interviews. I’d also used that technique during my military days because people often searched for facial clues and tailored their account to suit perceived biases. Wing Pruett’s face was impossible to read. After Babette finished, he made notes and turned my way.

  “Tell me everything Magdalen said, verbatim if you can. We’ll discuss impressions afterward.”

  There wasn’t much to tell. I repeated Magdalen’s story, particularly her advice to research Oscar Wilde before our next meeting, and the sense I got that she might be in peril.

  “She didn’t say that outright. Just spoke of the urgency of time.”

  “She’s fairly old, isn’t she?” Pruett asked. “Maybe she was just being practical.”

  Babette refilled her mug and edged into the conversation. “Hell, Wing, they’re all in that eternal waiting room. Every one of them.” She snapped her fingers. “Magdalen could pop off just like that and no one would be the wiser.”

  I couldn’t dispute her logic, but some inner voice told me there was more to it. Much more. “Let’s assume Magdalen told the truth,” I said. “An unpublished manuscript by Oscar Wilde would be worth millions. Just think of it. People have killed for far less.”

  Pruett looked up. “I managed to do some research on this, and it was quite enlightening.”

  “Wow,” Babette said. “That was quick. I’m surprised you had the time.”

  His lips twitched in a semi-smile. That in itself was a dead giveaway. Pruett typically delegated research chores to one of the many eager interns who swarmed his office. They tended to be young, J-school graduates with stars in their eyes. The overwhelmingly female gaggle also boasted good looks and an unsettling hero worship of one Wing Pruett.

  “What did you find?” I said. “The suspense is killing us.”

  He bent over his briefcase, playing for time. After retrieving his glasses, Pruett tapped the screen of his iPad and shared the news.

  “Okay. Bear in mind that all this is purely speculative. Oscar Wilde died young, as you know. Only forty-six.” He shook his head. “What a waste. Anyway, he did marry at least once and produced several offspring, but there’s a catch.”

  Babette clutched Clara’s collar so tightly the poor dog
yelped. “Come on,” Babette said. “Spit it out. We’re dying here.”

  Pruett and I locked eyes. I knew what he was going to say because I too had done some research. Any reasonably intelligent being with a computer could gather rudimentary information on an historical figure. Wilde’s fame had grown in the past few years as new generations learned to appreciate his genius and old taboos were discarded.

  Pruett adjusted his glasses. “First the bad news. No record of Oscar Wilde having any progeny outside of marriage. It’s surprising that he had any at all. As you probably know, he wasn’t inclined that way.”

  Babette leaped up. “You mean she lied? All that hooey about being his granddaughter was a lie?”

  Pruett held up his hand. “There was something else. Something that requires more investigation. In his last years in France, Wilde used the pseudonym Sebastian Melmoth on occasion.”

  My pal’s mouth dropped. The optics weren’t flattering; she bore an uncanny resemblance to a gaffed fish hanging on the docks. “Don’t assume anything from that,” Pruett said. “Again, I repeat, there was no mention of any other offspring.”

  Words of caution failed to dampen Babette’s spirits. Now that she had a ray of hope, she plunged headlong into the breach while I considered the pros and cons of the issue. Magdalen probably was misguided. That was far kinder than the other terms—delusional, senile, or lying. Still…Wilde’s passions swayed with the wind, especially during his final years. He even pursued religious conversion, which might argue for a return to a more conventional relationship with a woman. Suppose he produced a child along with an undiscovered manuscript? Stranger things have happened.

  “Where do we go from here?” Babette asked. “I can’t face those ladies if we don’t do something. Anything.”

  They both looked my way, waiting for me to weigh in. After all, Magdalen Melmoth was my project. Mine and my dogs’. I refused to abandon or dismiss her without listening to the rest of her story. Pruett might beg off, but I would not.

  “We’re scheduled to go back next week.” I turned toward Pruett. “Will you join us?”

  The gleam in his eyes said it all. “Just try to keep me away.”

  Chapter 4

  I spent the balance of the week working hard, filling orders for customers and toying with some new designs. My mother-daughter belts were big sellers at the various dog and horse shows and were even stocked in a number of high-end boutiques. Booming sales were a balm to my soul, but I couldn’t dispel my anxiety over Magdalen Melmoth. I simply couldn’t. Research only heightened my concern. The Internet teemed with sites dedicated to Oscar Wilde, but none of them hinted at any Melmoth offspring or rumors of undiscovered manuscripts. I chuckled every time I recalled one of Wilde’s bon mots: Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken. Had my new friend decided to claim her heritage, or was she merely living a dream?

  Pruett joined me that next Wednesday on our trek to the Falls. He insisted on driving his Porsche Macan, even though it was a tight fit with two large dogs stuffed into the back seat. I didn’t even try to resist. Better to fire up his luxury SUV for that journey than my Suburban. That old soldier had crossed the 200,000-mile mark some time ago, and I dreaded the expense and bother of ever replacing it. Pruett, on the other hand, tired of his vehicles after a year or two and automatically discarded them. It was probably a cautionary tale for other aspects of his personal life as well. I knew for a fact that he never remained in a relationship longer than two years, so my option would soon be up for renewal.

  “You look nifty, Persephone.” He twirled me around, admiring my choice of garb. I am certainly no fashion plate, but on occasion I can up my game. A cashmere twinset, new jeans, and freshly polished boots were my idea of haute couture. Not exactly Vogue, but apparently, he approved. Pruett had a keen sense of fashion. He wore a handsome tweed blazer, a white turtleneck, and khaki cords that raised all manner of licentious thoughts in my mind. With sublime effort I restrained myself from losing control and jumping his bones.

  “I did a bit more digging,” he said. “Spoke to a professor at GW who specializes in Wilde. Wrote a book about him too.”

  “What did she say?”

  He neatly evaded the trap and tweaked my chin in the bargain. “Just so happens this professor is male, Ms. Smarty-Pants. Bruce Douglas, professor of English literature at George Washington University. We were roommates at Johns Hopkins a hundred years ago.”

  Pruett enjoyed flaunting his age and superior wisdom. In actuality, he was only thirty-six, four years my senior, and as for wisdom—I could match him every time with life experience.

  “So, what did your old roomie have to say?” I asked.

  “I had to be cagey,” Pruett said. “Couldn’t let him get on the scent or we’d have a howling mob of academics storming the old age home.”

  I nodded, awaiting the bombshell I knew was coming.

  “Okay, the Goose said…

  “Goose?”

  “Goosey Brucey—his nickname. Anyway, he said that, if verified, an undiscovered manuscript by Oscar Wilde would fetch seven figures at least, especially if it was a novel.”

  That made sense. Wilde was a prolific writer of poems, essays, and plays, but he had produced only one novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray. Any addition to that legacy would ignite the literary world. I tried to tamp down the excitement building within me. After all, the musings of an elderly lady might be no more than wishful thinking. My task was to join Poe and Keats in supporting Magdalen. Therapy Dog guidelines specified that spreading comfort and joy was our primary objective. I resolved to do just that.

  “Earth to Perri. Wake up!” Pruett gently nudged me as we neared the gates of the Falls. “Dreaming about me, were you?”

  I lowered my sunglasses and stared at him. “Not likely. Why dream when you’re sitting right next to me?”

  Pruett shook his head and chuckled. “Always one up on me, aren’t you? You keep me on my toes.” He pulled into a visitors’ spot and scanned the area. I could tell that, like me, he was pleasantly surprised. On the surface, the Falls was everything an upscale housing complex should be.

  “Not bad,” he said. “I expected something from “The Fall of the House of Usher,” or Bleak House.”

  “Feeling literary, are you? I adore Poe, gloomy as he was, but Charles Dickens bores me silly. Very overrated in my opinion. Right down there with Melville and Thomas Hardy.”

  Pruett stared at me for a moment before responding. “You are really something, Ms. Perri. So very practical and self-sufficient, but amazingly well versed in the classics. Wow!”

  How typical of him to assume that only an Ivy League graduate could be erudite. Pruett was an alumnus of Columbia’s graduate program while I scraped and saved to make it through state universities. That didn’t make me a second-class citizen or automatically make him a scholar. I was saved from embarrassment by the timely arrival of Babette and Clara.

  “Hey, you two,” my pal sang out. “No hanky-panky in front of the old folks.”

  Pruett sprang out of his Porsche and opened the back hatch for my dogs. “Wouldn’t think of it, ma’am. Best behavior.”

  I assumed we needed some special permission to bring in a guest, but when that guest was famous the rules apparently didn’t apply. Nurse Carole Ross was absent, but we were immediately greeted by Dr. Fergueson and a distinguished-looking man wearing a stethoscope whose name plate read “Jethro Tully, MD.”

  “What a treat,” the administrator said, extending her hand. “You are Wing Pruett, are you not?”

  “Guilty,” Pruett said.

  Dr. Tully moved closer and stood toe to toe with Pruett. They were similar in size, age, and build, although the good doctor wore his light brown hair in an almost military cut. His features were regular with the exception of slightly protuberant green eyes. The overall affect was not unpleasant.
/>   “Not doing an exposé, I hope,” he said. His manner was jocular but guarded.

  Pruett did his innocent act. “Absolutely not. My fiancée invited me to watch therapy dogs in action and I couldn’t resist.”

  I heard Babette gasp and felt myself flush. Fiancée indeed! Why delude myself—it meant nothing. Pruett used any tactic necessary when he was on the scent of a story. He’d thrown me under the bus before, so this was nothing new.

  Meanwhile, Babette sidled up to Dr. Tully and gave him the big-eyed look. “Are you here all the time, Doctor?” She had a particular fascination for medical men, although in a pinch any presentable male was fair game.

  Tully smiled down at her. “My specialty is gerontology, so I’m sort of the go-to doctor here.”

  “Ooh. Lucky patients.” Babette had once been a cheerleader and still incorporated some of those moves into her everyday life. Thankfully, she no longer used pom-poms, although it wouldn’t have surprised me if they reappeared. Age was no barrier to Babette’s romantic adventures. She looked far younger than her years and maintained a strict regimen of facials, diet, and exercise to stay that way.

  Jethro Tully lowered his voice when several of the residents appeared. Each of the ladies waved at him, some behaving more coquettishly than others. He favored them with a rakish grin in return. “I understand you’ll be visiting Magdalen Melmoth today,” he said.

  I decided to play innocent. “Yes. Such a lovely woman.”

  Tully exchanged glances with Joan Fergueson but merely nodded. “Just so. Like many of our guests, she sometimes retreats into fantasy. Part of the aging process, I assure you. Nothing to get alarmed about.”