Murder at the Falls

by Arlene Kay

  “Anything in particular we should watch out for?” Pruett stayed low-key. “I suppose a bit of fantasy is useful for all of us, don’t you think? Otherwise how would we make it through the dreary days.”

  Dr. Fergueson nodded. “We’re quite accustomed to that at the Falls. Some years ago, a resident swore she was the daughter of Czar Nicholas. Insisted on calling herself Anastasia, if you can believe it. We humored her, of course.”

  “Harmless fantasies for the most part.” Jethro Tully bent down and patted my dogs. “Beautiful. I understand they served in Afghanistan.”

  “Perri always says they’re smarter than most humans,” Babette said. “I believe it. Of course, my Clara is no slouch either.”

  As we chatted, Pruett’s eyes wandered. He scanned the reception area, missing nothing at all. When several of the residents asked to pet our dogs, he gallantly stepped aside and introduced our canine caravan. Frankly, I believed that the more audacious ladies in question were more interested in mauling Wing Pruett than learning about the therapy dog program. They hooked arms with my guy and soon guided him to one of the sofas, amid a flurry of dimpled smiles and eyelash batting.

  “I’ll join you later,” Pruett told me. “These ladies have captured me.”

  Babette and I exchanged looks and headed for the elevators, where we joined Kate Thayer and Rolf Hart. Doctors Fergueson and Tully shrugged, excused themselves, and exited the building.

  “What’s he up to?” Babette asked in a stage whisper, pointing to Pruett.

  I pressed the second-floor button and yawned. “No telling.”

  Rolf gave me one of his semi-smiles. “Well, Perri. I had no idea you were friends with a celebrity. I recognized Wing Pruett immediately. Quite the catch.”

  I recognized the subtext of his comment: What does a guy like Pruett see in a nobody like Perri Morgan? No surprise. I’d often asked myself that same question.

  Kate intervened quickly. “Who wouldn’t recognize him? He’s even better looking in person! Wow. Lucky you, Perri.”

  “What’s he doing here?” Rolf asked. “Not much material for an investigative hotshot at the Falls.”

  This time Babette was prepared. I knew by the gleam in her eye that she was locked and loaded. “Are you kidding? That man is crazy about Perri. Follows her everywhere she goes. It’s almost embarrassin’.”

  Rolf harrumphed and said no more, but Kate winked at me.

  We parted in the hallway, when Babette headed toward Irene Wilson’s studio. I moved slowly as I approached Magdalen’s apartment, unable to shake a feeling of impending doom. Keats and Poe stayed close to my side, faithful sentries and protectors.

  Magdalen answered the doorbell immediately, looking pert and quite exuberant. Her smile never wavered as she scanned the hallway for any other visitors. “Welcome, Persephone,” she said, “and of course my doggy dears as well. I have tea ready.”

  I quickly explained that Pruett would be joining us once he disengaged from his claque of groupies. Magdalen chuckled and whisked me into her parlor. “I’m not surprised. Elaine and her reading group somehow got wind of Mr. Pruett’s visit. They’re terrible flirts, but I can’t really blame them. We don’t often see handsome men here. Actually, men of any type are fairly scarce.”

  I envisioned Babette in thirty years still scoping out presentable male visitors regardless of age. No judgments. It made sense. We chatted about inconsequential things, awaiting the arrival of the guest of honor. I was curious about her assessment of Dr. Jethro Tully and his role at the Falls.

  Initially, she hesitated. “I want to be fair. He’s very professional. Impersonal but not unfriendly. Apparently knows his stuff too. I looked him up on the Internet. Googled him.”

  I sensed a mile-wide caveat. Magdalen’s generation was raised to revere physicians and speak no evil or anything even mildly critical. She bit her lip and finally stammered a reply.

  “It’s nothing concrete. He’s always been perfectly civil, but I just don’t trust him. My mother had two terms for a man like Dr. Tully: smarmy and oleaginous.” Magdalen chuckled. “They mean much the same thing, but I love the expressions. Unfortunately, people today tend to use so few of the words in our vast language. He just acts so entitled. So much swagger. I guess that’s it. Insists on special bottled water from Italy and imported espresso. You know the type, Perri. Underneath the charm I sense something else. He patronizes the residents.” Magdalen curled her lip. “We may be old, but most of us still have our wits about us.”

  I wanted to probe for specifics, but at that moment, Pruett knocked on her door and was ushered into the room with great ceremony. Magdalen took his hands, looked him up and down, and nodded her approval. “Well, Mr. Pruett. I see that for once the press buildup was totally justified.”

  This was nothing new for Wing Pruett, but to my surprise, he flushed. “You’ve been on my mind, Ms. Melmoth, ever since Perri told me about you. I’m fascinated by your story.”

  Magdalen motioned us toward the dining table, poured tea, and shared a plate of sandwiches and lemon tarts. “Eat, please. I know that men need sustenance, and a hearty appetite is a compliment to the hostess. As for my heritage, you must think I’m senile, Mr. Pruett. The doctor called it ‘fanciful,’ as if the meaning was all that different.” She stared at both of us, eyes blazing. “He’s wrong. It happens to be true. All of it. I am the granddaughter of Oscar Wilde and I can prove it.”

  Chapter 5

  No one spoke for a moment. As tension built, the silence was deafening. It took the soothing presence of Keats and Poe to break the logjam and restore order. Poe sidled up to Magdalen and placed his paw on her knee. That freed her to bend down and hug him. As she stroked his shiny coat, Magdalen Melmoth told her story.

  “My parents never said much about our heritage. Father died during the Second World War, like so many other fine young men. My mother was hesitant to tell me much about his family. I grew up surrounded by a large, boisterous Irish group, my mother’s family, the Kingsburys. It was a comfortable life, filled with fun, horses, and every type of pet.” She paused, as if recalling those halcyon days. “Why, I did all the things a farm child enjoys—even operated machinery and bailed hay. I was quite a tomboy in those days.”

  That gave Pruett the opening he sought. “No one mentioned Oscar Wilde or hinted at your connections?”

  She shook her head. “Only on her deathbed did my mother speak of Sebastian Melmoth, my grandfather. That was the name she used. Never the other one. It simply wasn’t done in those days, you see, particularly when something scandalous was involved.”

  Pruett leaned forward, his shoulders tense as he surreptitiously took notes. He knew that by letting Magdalen tell her story her way, he would ultimately get the information he needed. Patience was a virtue he often lacked, except in pursuit of his professional goals. “Perhaps your first name was a clue. If I’m not mistaken, a beautiful poem called ‘Magdalen Walks’ was one of Wilde’s big successes.”

  Her cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink. “How perceptive of you, Mr. Pruett. Of course, that poem was about Magdalen College, Oxford, but still…”

  “What was your father’s name?” I asked, praying that this family saga wouldn’t go on forever.

  “Fingal. A common family name in Ireland, I understand, although not here. We immigrated to America when my mother remarried. Mama always caught the eye of the men around her, you see. Declan Farraday was a good man, quite a prosperous builder in his day. He offered to adopt me, but Mother refused. She said it would be tantamount to renouncing my father.” Magdalen shook her head. “We simply couldn’t do that.”

  Pruett was growing restless. I knew his moods and could read him perfectly. To his credit, he gritted his teeth, turned up the charm machine, and stayed the course. “What did your mother tell you? Did she offer any proof or documents?”

  Magda
len’s gentle smile reproved him. “Of course not. Mother said that my grandfather was a noted literary genius whose reputation had been tarnished in England.” Magdalen’s cheeks colored again. “Naturally she never specified what caused his downfall. In her day it simply wasn’t done. ‘The love that dare not speak its name’—that was the closest she came. Of course, later as I read more about him, I understood.”

  Pruett furrowed his brow. “What about your father? Any diaries or letters about his parents?”

  Once again Magdalen chuckled. “None that I know of. Just oral tradition. My father was a brilliant man. He took two firsts at Oxford. I recall Mother said that he followed in his father’s footsteps. Sebastian Fingal Melmoth was his full name.”

  I tried not to sigh. Memories were therapeutic, but essentially unhelpful. They got us no closer to Oscar Wilde and the manuscript.

  Pruett’s manner was gentle but firm. He held Magdalen’s hand and looked directly into her eyes. “Tell us about the manuscript. It’s important, Magdalen.”

  There was something refreshingly girlish in her manner, a throwback from another more modest age. A photo on her mantel showed teenaged Magdalen clad in jodhpurs and formal riding regalia holding a palomino’s bridle. Wow! She was quite a stunner in her youth. Made me wonder why Magdalen had remained single.

  “I’ve never actually seen it,” Magdalen admitted, “not the entire manuscript at least. But I’ve read fragments. and Mother said it was the best thing my grandpa ever wrote.”

  Pruett gritted his teeth. His frustration was understandable because he was a gung ho, carpe diem kind of gonzo journalist. I decided that strategic intervention was in order to save the day.

  “Oscar Wilde only wrote one novel. Is this a novel, Magdalen? If so that’s big news.”

  Once again, she hesitated. The silence was broken by a rap on the door and the entrance of Babette and Clara. After preliminary small talk, Babette cut to the chase. “What did I miss? Tell me everything about that manuscript, Magdalen. I barely slept last night just thinkin’ of it.”

  Magdalen fluttered and flushed, but after taking a mighty sip of tea, she continued her story. “To answer your question, Persephone, the work is a novel. The title sounds somewhat odd, but then, by all accounts, my grandfather was known as an eccentric.”

  Talk about your understatements of the year. If indeed Magdalen’s grandpa was the celebrity in question, he was called many things of which “eccentric” might have been the kindest. Oscar Wilde’s brilliance stretched to so many areas that some considered him a dilettante. I called him a genius. I checked my watch. Our session was scheduled to end soon, followed by a general seminar for all residents involved in the Therapy Dog program. I bit my lip in frustration, but once again Babette rode to the rescue.

  “What’s the title, Magdalen? You must know that much at least. You’re killing us here.” Babette framed her question with a sweet smile that tempered her pointed words.

  Magdalen tilted her head toward the ceiling. “Oh yes, dear. Forgive an old lady for woolgathering. You mentioned Dorian Gray, Perri. Well, Sebastian Melmoth used a character in that novel for his final work. He called it Sybil Vane.”

  Babette leaned forward. “I don’t get it. Why is that such a big deal?”

  Pruett smiled. “As I recall, Sybil was the young actress who almost saved Dorian Gray. Right, Ms. Magdalen?”

  She clapped her hands in delight. “How perceptive you are. That’s absolutely true. After the dogs perform, I’ll explain how to find it. I’m counting on you—all of you—to preserve my grandfather’s legacy.” Magdalen reached into her pocket and pulled out an antique gold pocket watch. “I see that our time here is up. Persephone, if you will do the honors.” She reached into the drawer of her escritoire and withdrew a manila envelope. “Keep this safe until we get back here.”

  * * * *

  The house was packed for our presentation, although the stars of the show were canine, not human. Keats, Poe, and Clara, joined by Gomer and Portia, gave a formal demonstration that included several dance routines and a formal explanation of the Therapy Dog program. Several familiar faces surfaced in the crowd, including Doctors Fergueson and Tully. Nurse Carole Ross stood guard at the back of the room wearing the grim visage of a prison matron. I wasn’t intimidated, but I confess she puzzled me. Her manner was at variance with the genial, relaxed attitude of the rest of the staff and residents. It was hardly conducive to a homey atmosphere. The audience was overwhelmingly female, a reflection of the longevity of women over men. Perhaps that explained why Wing Pruett garnered the attention of virtually everyone in the audience. He was ensconced on a sofa between two ladies of a certain age who shamelessly doted on him. Magdalen and her pal Irene Wilson snagged a front row seat. They slyly waved at us as we finished our performance and clapped for our dogs. We were expected to mingle with the residents afterward and allow them to greet our pets. Although the results were gratifying, the program took far longer than I’d anticipated. Of course, my mind was preoccupied by thoughts of that manila envelope and dreams of a literary bombshell. I couldn’t really gauge how much time had elapsed and suspected Pruett felt the same way.

  Kate Thayer shooed Gomer away from some low-hanging treats and sighed. “I have to duck out early today. That old jalopy of mine broke down again and every time the mechanic gives me a progress report I almost faint.”

  “For crying out loud, Kate, get a reliable vehicle. It’s not safe.” Rolf sniffed as he adjusted Portia’s collar. “Ride back with me and I’ll loan you one of mine.”

  It was a kind gesture and yet…I couldn’t help thinking it was but another self-aggrandizing move by Rolf. The man’s enormous ego was constantly on display. Don’t get me wrong. I admired initiative, but most of the truly successful people I knew didn’t tout their accomplishments. No one ever suggested that educators, particularly retired ones, could afford expensive cars. Most chose the same route Kate had—nurse the old one as long as possible. I understood that all too well. Fortunately, despite a few dings and dents, my aged Suburban was battered but unbowed. Even the thought of buying a replacement made me blanch.

  A faint blush rose on Kate’s cheeks. His allusion to her finances had obviously embarrassed her. “Thanks, Rolf, but I’ll manage. That old Jeep seems like part of the family by now. Kind of an elderly uncle who is still lovable despite his quirks.”

  Rolf snorted. “Don’t let pride be your downfall, Kate. As it is, you pay a boatload of property taxes in DC. Must be hard to manage on a teacher’s pension. My portfolio takes a hit every time the assessor waves his pen.” He consulted his watch, an outsize gold Rolex, and grasped Portia’s lead. “I’ve got to meet an important client this afternoon,” he said. “Finally have a chance to wrap up that land deal in Shenandoah County if the old codgers who own it don’t get sentimental. Let’s leave as soon as we can.”

  By the time the social hour concluded Magdalen had vanished. Irene Wilson told us not to worry. Magdalen was fatigued and had slipped away to take a nap. She asked that we call her later on that evening. Pruett was miffed, I was disappointed, and Babette was livid.

  “We came all the way out here to see her,” she fumed. “Naptime just doesn’t cut it. I don’t care how old she is either.”

  Irene made excuses for her friend and dithered about it to the point of tears. “Mags has been under such stress lately,” she said, “and then there were all those peculiar goings-on. They really spooked her.”

  Pruett immediately sensed a story. “Peculiar?” he asked with his most winsome smile. “Come on. Give us a hint.”

  Irene looked around and lowered her voice. “First there was a mix-up with her heart pills. Mags noticed that they were a different color and kicked up quite a fuss.”

  “Understandable,” Pruett said. “I’d react the same way. Probably an error by the nursing staff, I bet.”

  Ire
ne beamed at him. “Exactly, Mr. Pruett. Nurse Ross got quite testy about it, and Dr. Tully had to calm everyone down. One of the residents passed recently, you know, and that leaves all of us a bit shaky. Sara Whitman was only in her early seventies and livelier than most.” She lowered her eyes as if hesitant to continue.

  Pruett put his arm on her shoulder. “Pardon me for saying this, but death can’t be a stranger at the Falls. What made this so unusual?”

  Irene raised her head, as if she’d had a renewal of energy. “We’re realists here, Mr. Pruett. At least most of us are. But Sara just completed a full physical. Top to bottom. No problems. She wasn’t happy here and planned to leave. Come to think of it, she was thick as thieves with that real estate man. You know, the one with the borzoi. I think he egged her on.”

  Both Babette and I spoke as one. “Rolf Hart?”

  Irene nodded. “There was a bit of a bother about that, and Nurse Ross gave Sara what for. Said she didn’t appreciate anything and didn’t deserve to live here.”

  “Anything else?” Pruett asked. “Don’t be shy, now. Not if you want to help Magdalen.”

  Irene dithered again but finally relented. “Mags and Sara weren’t friendly.”

  That could mean virtually anything. Who would expect everyone living in close quarters to bond? I certainly didn’t. If properly channeled, some level of conflict was probably even healthy. Magdalen was a feisty woman who refused to hold back her opinions. Sounded like Sara Whitman was the same.

  “They got into it, did they?” Babette wasted no time in clarifying things.

  Irene gave a half-hearted grin. “Threats flew and I thought for a moment that things might get physical. Sara liked to snoop, you see. Magdalen accused her of prowling around in her things. Papers and the like. We’re all sensitive about privacy around here, as you can imagine. Sara denied touching anything, but Mags didn’t believe her, and it’s true that someone had been riffling through her belongings.”