Murder at the Falls

by Arlene Kay

  “What kind of threats were made, Irene?” I felt like covering my ears in a hear no evil pose.

  “Just the usual.” Irene brightened. “Like on television. All the police shows have someone threatening to kill someone else.”

  Babette yawned. “Big deal. I say that at least once a week, especially about my spineless ex-husband.” Her lip curled as she recalled Carleton Croy.

  “Then there was the prowler. At least Mags thought that was what he was. She caught someone jiggling the door handle in her room and screamed bloody murder.”

  Alarm bells were clanging in my mind. Either Magdalen was delusional or she was quite right to be concerned about her safety. Prowlers, pills, and premature deaths didn’t bode well for anyone, let alone a vulnerable elderly spinster.

  “I bet it’s part of this manuscript stuff,” Babette said, turning to Irene. “How many people know about it?”

  For a moment, Irene hesitated. “Manuscript?”

  Delicacy was never my pal’s strong suit. “Don’t be coy,” she said. “You’re her best friend after all. I tell Perri everything and I’ll bet you share too.”

  Irene nodded. “Mags did mention something, but frankly I thought she might be …”

  “Lying?” Babette said.

  “Oh no! Nothing like that. Exaggerating maybe. Life here is pretty dull, you know.” Irene bit her lip and once again appeared close to tears.

  I prized loyalty in my friends and empathized with her dilemma. “Tell you what,” I said. “We’ll call Magdalen later and make sure she’s okay.” Babette grunted and Pruett gave Irene a little hug that elevated her spirits much more than anything I could offer. We exchanged pleasantries and took our leave. I clutched the manila envelope as tightly if it were a living thing, positive that the contents would go a long way toward unlocking the key to Sebastian Melmoth’s literary legacy. If it existed, that is.

  The suspense was prolonged by Pruett’s insistence that we stop for dinner at his favorite French bistro in Leesburg. Babette concurred. She seldom refused a chance to chow down à la française, particularly when a man was footing the bill. Over an exquisite meal of crepes, we shared our hopes and reservations about this latest quest. Most of our discussion centered around mysterious Magdalen Melmoth. Pruett had mixed feelings, Babette termed her a kook, and I was undecided. Until we scrutinized the contents of that envelope, speculation was counterproductive and useless. I planned to give my new friend the benefit of the doubt.

  After reaching Great Marsh, I tended to my pets while Pruett and Babette sipped bourbon and swapped theories. Feeding and grooming one cantankerous goat, a lively Arabian, an entitled feline, and two large dogs took considerable time and effort. By mutual agreement the envelope remained sealed until all three of us were present.

  “Okay, gang,” I said when I finally joined them. “Let the games begin.”

  I did the honors, using an antique letter opener to carefully pry apart the flap of the envelope. As the contents spilled on to my farmhouse table, we held our collective breaths and stared. Nothing earthshaking emerged; simply several handwritten pages with the legend Sybil Vane, and a packet of yellowed sheets of what looked like correspondence fastened by a pink ribbon.

  “Wow,” Babette grumbled. “Is this the big reveal? Looks like a bunch of junk to me.”

  “Hold on.” Pruett’s long, slender fingers carefully untied the letters. He remained focused on the task at hand, blissfully unaware of my impatience.

  “This might be something after all,” he said. “Remember. no email, texts, or cell phones in those days. People communicated the old-fashioned way.”

  As I reached for the Sybil Vane pages, Babette snatched them from me. “Wait a minute, girlfriend. We’re partners, remember? Heck. We might be making history— touching a masterpiece.” She fumbled in her purse for the reading glasses she abhorred and perched them on the tip of her nose.

  I kept my doubts to myself. No need to shatter Magdalen’s dreams prematurely. Time enough for that later. I soon realized we had in our possession the prologue to a novel. The full title read Sybil Vane, a novel by Sebastian Melmoth. It appeared to be a first-person narrative of the title character’s life and tragic death at her own hand. The language was formal, much more typical of the nineteenth century than our own. Nevertheless, it was compelling. I scanned the first paragraph, unable to avert my eyes.

  “I never sought to end my life—not until HE who was my sole reason for existence cast me aside. He dismissed any claim I had to beauty or talent as wanting. Like Hamlet, I reviled self-slaughter, but life was bereft of meaning without him and I succumbed.”

  Babette gasped and clutched my arm. “Good Lord! This is excitin’.”

  Before I could respond, my iPhone buzzed. I considered ignoring it but reached for it from sheer force of habit. The lure of potential customers outweighed personal convenience every time. The voice on the other end was faint, barely audible.

  “Who’s speaking please?” I asked.

  “It’s Irene. Irene Wilson.”

  Alarm bells clanged in my head, but I kept my voice calm and unemotional. “Yes, Mrs. Wilson. How can I help you? Is Magdalen okay?”

  Irene Wilson sobbed loudly into the phone. “That’s just it, Ms. Morgan. Mags has disappeared.” She gulped. “And something else. Nurse Ross—she’s been murdered.”

  Chapter 6

  By unspoken agreement we three leashed the dogs, bundled up, and trekked to my old Suburban, the only vehicle large enough to accommodate our entire crew. For once Pruett was too engrossed in reading Magdalen’s correspondence to grouse about who would drive. The rules were simple—my car, my choice. I also happened to be a better driver than Pruett, although neither one of us discussed that issue. Because her night vision was impaired, Babette was content to curl up in the back seat with Clara and doze. She was untroubled by the driving question; she honored the old Southern tradition of letting males take the lead whenever possible unless her own wishes were thwarted.

  “Anything interestin’ in those letters?” she asked Pruett. Naptime ended and Babette was ready to rock. “You’re a million miles away.”

  He pushed down his horn-rimmed glasses and grinned. “Can’t tell yet. Murder and kidnapping tend to distract me. For all we know, Nurse Ross may have died from natural causes and Magdalen simply fled the scene. Too soon to know. Mrs. Wilson might have exaggerated.”

  I hoped he was right, but I doubted it. The sound of Irene’s panicked voice reverberated in my ear. Obviously, some type of incident had spooked her and sent the entire facility into a tailspin. Nurse Carole Ross appeared indestructible, a true iron maiden. My few interactions with her had not been pleasant, but surely the woman had done nothing to warrant a violent death. As for Magdalen, the isolated location of the Falls argued against an escape plan for an octogenarian on the run. Public transportation was limited and to my knowledge, Magdalen did not own or drive a car. More than likely she had fled to the porch or another part of the residence. I consoled myself with that thought even though I didn’t quite believe it.

  “Bet ya Mags was kidnapped,” Babette said. “Good thing she gave you that envelope, Perri. There might be clues inside.”

  I hadn’t considered my obligation to turn everything over to the authorities. After all, we might be in possession of evidence in a murder case. Apparently, Pruett had already thought of that. As we approached our friendly Staples store, he barked a command and scooped the evidence back into the manila envelope. “Stop. This won’t take long.” He loped out of the car, leaving Babette and me to marvel at his fast thinking.

  Babette teased, “Gotta say, Perri, you are one lucky girl, my friend. Got a man who’s smart and sexy.”

  I ignored the comment and reminded my pal that at thirty-two years of age, my girlhood was far behind me. Naturally Babette pooh-poohed everything I said.


  “Don’t go all feminist on me,” she said. “Men like him are in short supply. Ask around. Women over forty don’t exist for a lot of fellows, even ugly guys with no future.”

  Babette’s analysis rang true. Pruett often said that in the nation’s capital, power meant more than pretty especially for males.

  “Mission accomplished?” I asked when he jumped back into the Suburban.

  “Yep. Now we can turn this over to the cops with a clear conscience.” The sentiment was admirable but not at all like him because Pruett often skirted the boundaries of law and propriety when pursuing a story. I threw a skeptical look his way, then focused on driving. Rural roads in Virginia were poorly lit and quite treacherous for the unwary motorist. Hills, holes, and sudden curves abounded. Deer sightings were frequent and often deadly. Pruett managed to distract both Babette and me by sharing the latest exploits of his daughter, Ella, and her prize pointer, Lady Guinevere. It didn’t take much to captivate me because I savored every scrap of information and silly anecdote about that child. I loved Ella as if she were my own, even though she was the natural offspring of Pruett and photojournalist Monique Allaire. Maternal instincts had surfaced late in life for me, but they were in full bloom where Ella was concerned. Go figure.

  Despite the hour, the Falls was ablaze with lights. The entrance was packed with police vehicles, ambulances, and the discreet but ominous coroner’s van. I shivered as I recalled our previous brushes with sudden death. Surely this would end up being a case of natural causes. With her age and blocky physique, Nurse Ross appeared to be a prime candidate for heart ailments. Plus, according to Babette the woman smoked. She’d detected the odor of tobacco when they first met and trumpeted it to Pruett and me. My dear pal never met a grudge worth relinquishing and she resented our shabby treatment by Carole Ross.

  “Downright unmannerly,” she fumed, as if this was the ultimate social sin. “Not a nice woman at all.”

  “Surely not a death penalty offense,” Pruett teased. “You’d eviscerate the ranks of Congress if that were so.”

  Babette knew when she was being teased. Fortunately, Pruett got a hall pass no matter how many times he taunted her.

  Initially the deputy on guard waved us off the premises, but once again Wing Pruett came through. “We have information for Sheriff Page,” he said with a specious smile. I doubted if that was true, but sure enough, after furnishing his name to the deputy, Pruett was ushered into the facility with Babette and me trailing in his wake. When I met the sheriff, everything became clear.

  Aleita Page was a sheriff from central casting, assuming your territory was Hollywood, not rural Virginia. Everything about her was shipshape, from neatly braided locks and trim waist to her hourglass figure. Pruett greeted her with a familiarity that suggested a close, perhaps even intimate knowledge. They exchanged hugs and lingered just a tad longer than necessary.

  “She’s gorgeous,” Babette stage-whispered. “Watcha wanta bet she and Wing had something going on?”

  Sometimes I forgot that Babette was my best pal. In this instance rhapsodizing about Pruett and another woman hardly qualified her for sainthood or friend of the year. I clutched the manila envelope, squared my shoulders, and soldiered on toward the large conference room in the office complex, reminding myself yet again that both Pruett and I were free agents.

  Joan Fergueson was already seated with Dr. Jethro Tully hovering behind her. Both physicians were composed but solemn. Fergueson’s complexion was devoid of color, almost bloodless, and her hands were clenched so tightly, I feared she might break a bone. Tully was another matter entirely. His manner was cold, clinical, and dare I say indifferent. He appeared to shrug off his colleague’s death without wrinkling his brow or tailored suit.

  “What’s this, Sheriff?” he said. “Hardly the time for visitors, I would think.”

  Dr. Fergueson raised red-rimmed eyes and looked our way. “Ms. Morgan? Is Magdalen with you?”

  I shook my head but said nothing, waiting for Sheriff Aleita Page to speak. When she did so, it was with confidence and authority.

  “One of your residents called Ms. Morgan. She, Mr. Pruett, and Mrs. Croy were kind enough to respond. Maybe if we pool our resources, we can find our missing person.” She consulted her notes. “Miss Melmoth, is it?”

  “Magdalen.” Tully took charge and quickly supplied his patient’s basic statistics: age, physical description, and personality profile. Without explicitly saying so, he hinted that Magdalen was delusional and close to dotty.

  Sheriff Page gave him a level stare. “Are you suggesting that she’s violent? Pending an autopsy, we’re treating Nurse Ross’s death as suspicious and Ms. Melmoth as a missing person.”

  I gave Tully a hard stare. “We met with her and her mental state was clear as a bell.” I nodded toward Pruett and Babette. “Ask my friends if you don’t believe me.”

  Babette was never one to mince words, especially in the cause of justice. “How did Nurse Ross die? We heard she was murdered.”

  Joan Fergueson coughed. “We don’t know that. If the press gets wind of it…” A look of horror eclipsed her face as she recalled that Wing Pruett was a distinguished member of the Fourth Estate. Once again, Aleita Page intervened. “Nothing’s certain yet, so I think we can count on Mr. Pruett’s discretion. Right, Wing?”

  Pruett said nothing, his cherubic expression a total charade. I knew from sad experience that if a hot story sprang up, all bets were off, and no person or institution would be spared. I suppressed Babette’s derisive snort by administering a sharp elbow to her ribs. Let them keep their illusions as long as possible. My concern was finding Magdalen before any harm befell her. To do that, I needed to speak with Irene Wilson as soon as possible to find out what she knew. After all, she was on the scene and was the one who had summoned us.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “My dogs are locked up in the car and need to stretch their legs.” As excuses went, that was pretty feeble, but given the high drama surrounding us, it passed unchallenged. Pruett raised his eyebrows, but Babette got the message and joined me.

  “Lookin’ for Irene?” she whispered.

  I nodded and headed for the stairwell, figuring the elevators were probably locked down to secure the building. Luck was with us and we managed to evade the deputies on patrol and reach Irene Wilson’s studio.

  She cautiously opened the door and waved us in. “Oh, thank the Lord. I prayed you’d come. They shut down the switchboard, but of course I have my cell phone.” Her hands trembled and her voice shook with emotion. “Please help Mags. I’m afraid for her.”

  Babette, who personified Southern hospitality, settled Irene into a wing chair and prepared tea. In times of stress, her impeccable manners and nurturing instincts came in handy.

  “Tell us what happened,” I said. “We don’t have much time.”

  Irene nodded. “I was with Mags at her place when Nurse Ross brought up a parcel. Naturally we opened it. Who could refuse a treat, especially one that was wrapped so beautifully?”

  “Brown paper wrapping or fun stuff?” Babette asked. It was a good question, one I wished I had thought of.

  Irene hesitated. “Why, now that I think of it, there was no outer wrapping. Just really pretty foil with a ribbon.” She took a deep breath and continued. “Turns out it was candy. Belgian. An entire pound. Well, Magdalen doesn’t care for sweets, and I’m a diabetic so I can’t partake. We gave it to Nurse Ross instead—for the floor staff, you know. Lots of people do that. It’s a fairly common practice.”

  I knew where this tale was going, and the picture wasn’t pretty. Judging by her sturdy build, Nurse Ross liked candy. A lot.

  “I don’t suppose a card was enclosed?” I asked. A poisoner would hardly sign his own name, but every clue was important.

  Irene shook her head. “No. Just one of those computer messages saying, ‘Best Wishes.’ N
o name. We joked that Magdalen had a secret admirer.”

  “I bet you probably get a lot of parcels,” Babette said slyly. “Amazon delivers everything. Amazin’, isn’t it?”

  I saw where she was headed and applauded her. At times my friend was sneaky enough for both of us.

  Irene frowned. “Mail and parcels are delivered every day at noon. Right before lunch. It makes a special treat, don’t you see. That way everyone can ooh and ah about it at our tables. Nurse Ross never brought things to our door before.” She backtracked, as if afraid she was maligning the departed. “Not that we’d expect her to. The staff is very busy, and Nurse Ross had other things on her mind.”

  “Like what?” Babette cut to the chase per usual

  “Mags thought Carole—Nurse Ross—had a beau. Someone she met here, I think. Maybe a relative of one of the residents.”

  I hated to be unkind, but Carole Ross hardly seemed a figure of romance. Still, I was glad her final days had been joyful. Romance nourished the soul of everyone, man or woman.

  I poured each of us another cup of chamomile tea, hoping to calm Irene and continue the narrative. Any minute either Pruett or the sexy sheriff would probably interrupt us and spoil everything. “When did Magdalen disappear?”

  Irene’s eyes filled as she recalled her friend. “I went out to the elevator and found her—Nurse Ross. She was on the floor, with the candy spilled all around her. I’m afraid I screamed bloody murder.” She flushed. “That’s really not like me, you see. Mags and several other residents came right out. When she saw what happened Mags didn’t faint, but she got so pale, I thought she might. She has a dicey heart, you know.”

  I recalled that recently there had been some mix-up with Magdalen’s heart medication, a mix-up that had involved Nurse Ross. “When did Magdalen disappear?” I asked.

  Irene put her head in her hands. “I can’t say for certain. You see, more people crowded around—seemed like every resident in the building came out—and between that and all the wailing and chattering, I lost track of Mags.” As she raised her head, Irene’s eyes filled again. “Some friend I am. I let her down.”