Murder at the Falls

by Arlene Kay

  “Everything went well?” I asked.

  “Wonderful.” Magdalen’s smile was luminous. “Mr. Briggs took care of everything. Such a sympathetic man.”

  Babette sighed. As I suspected she was perilously close to another all-consuming, potentially catastrophic crush. Four marriages had done nothing to dampen her enthusiasm for love and romance.

  “I’d heard of him before, but for some reason we’d never met. Quite a charmer, Perri, and gracious as well.” I really hated it when Babette gushed over a man even when it was justified. Typically, such behavior preceded a rush of emotion and ended in disaster. “Pruett said he’s single. Micah, I mean, not Pruett.” Babette turned toward Magdalen and smirked. “We all know Pruett is taken.”

  Magdalen played along. “Indeed we do.” She patted Poe’s silky head and asked, “Could I possibly meet this cantankerous goat of yours before the light fades?”

  “Zeke?” Few people cared to confront an actively hostile pygmy goat, and most avoided him whenever possible. “Of course, Magdalen. I need to feed him anyway before he gets angry.”

  “Count me out,” Babette said. “I’m comfy right here on the couch.”

  We grabbed our wraps and headed toward the barn. Zeke was wild-eyed until he spotted his boon companions, Keats and Poe. He had bonded with my dogs early on and considered them siblings, or at least partners in crime.

  While I cleaned his stall and forked hay into his feed bowl, Magdalen spoke. “Forgive me for the ruse, dear, but I had to speak with you alone.”

  I stayed silent as she continued. “You know I completed my will today, I suppose.”

  “Yes.”

  “I wanted you to know that I willed my few possessions to you and made you executor of my grandfather’s literary estate. Sebastian Melmoth, of course, not Oscar Wilde.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Magdalen. Isn’t there someone—some relative or old friend—who would be a better fit?”

  Her smile was sad. “None. I need someone I can trust to do the right thing, and I know that’s you. When you get to my age, friendships fade, and most family members have departed.”

  I still hadn’t processed the enormity of her bequest. “But Magdalen, a newly validated work by Oscar Wilde would be priceless.”

  “Yes. I only ask that you credit my mother and her family in the preface. They deserve that recognition. I have some additional information at the house that you and Mr. Pruett will find useful.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Sometimes, my dear, silence is indeed golden.”

  * * * *

  That evening we enjoyed what in prior times would have been termed a hen party. Soft jazz filled the room, a companionable fire burned, and we supped on one of my few signature dishes—spinach quiche. Magdalen entertained us with tales of life in rural Ireland, I talked about dog shows, and Babette contributed her share of slightly scandalous asides about her wealthy friends and neighbors in Great Marsh.

  “I hope I’m not shockin’ you, Magdalen,” Babette said after one especially lurid tidbit.

  Magdalen adjusted her cushion and laughed. “Oh no, dear. Sex is and has always been part of life. My grandfather certainly partook. He paid the price for it, of course.”

  I shivered, thinking of the majestic piece, The Ballad of Reading Gaol, and the tag line, “each man kills the thing he loves.” Magdalen might be thinking the same thing, but she seemed untroubled by it. When Pruett texted me an hour later, I broke the news to her.

  “Sheriff Page will be here at ten a.m. tomorrow to interview you. Are you okay with that?”

  “Certainly. I don’t plan to mention the manuscript, though. Why complicate things?” Thatcher jumped into her lap at that moment in a gesture of solidarity. “I think I will go home with the sheriff tomorrow. I spoke with Irene today,” Magdalen said. “She misses me and frankly, I’ve imposed on your hospitality long enough.”

  Alarm bells clanged in my head. “No. You can’t. Please don’t leave yet. It may not be safe.”

  Babette joined me in urging Magdalen to stay, but she was implacable. “Remember, ladies, the Bible says there is a time for every purpose under Heaven. At my age, that time may be drawing near, but I don’t fear it.” She gently displaced Thatcher and rose. “Forgive me if I make an early night of it. Big day for all of us tomorrow.”

  Babette left shortly thereafter, and for the first time in a long while I was alone with only my thoughts and my pets for company.

  * * * *

  I slept so soundly that it took shards of sunlight and the gentle urging of my dogs to awaken me. I leaped up, guilt ridden. The Puritan work ethic was alive and well in Persephone Morgan, and lolling about in bed aroused guilt in every pore of my skin.

  After attending to my pets, I devoted a goodly amount of time to my hair, makeup, and wardrobe. Call me frivolous, but I’d seen the look that passed between Aleita Page and Wing Pruett. I intended to up my game as best I could before the sultry sheriff made her appearance. No need to give aid and comfort to potential competition.

  Magdalen joined me in a modest repast of oatmeal, fruit, and toast, but her attention wandered as her appetite waned.

  “Sure you feel up to this interview?” I asked. “I can contact the sheriff and cancel.”

  She closed her eyes and smiled. “No, dear. Forgive me for woolgathering. I left some more information on the bed for you and Mr. Pruett. It’s a burden, I know, but your help is nothing short of a blessing. Finding the manuscript is my final crusade, a quest worthy of Don Quixote himself.”

  That knight errant tilted at windmills, so Magdalen’s imagery did not comfort me. Perhaps Doctors Fergueson and Tully had correctly diagnosed the situation after all. A sudden cacophony of sounds swept those thoughts from my mind. Zeke’s braying and the barking of my dogs announced the arrival of Sheriff Aleita Page and her deputy.

  If anything, the sheriff was even more attractive than I remembered her. Her shiny black braid, flawless skin, and trim figure combined in a most felicitous mixture, one that any man, especially Wing Pruett, would appreciate.

  After accepting a cup of espresso, Aleita Page looked around the room. “Will Wing be joining us today?”

  I bit my tongue before answering. No need to be snarky. She was probably a very nice person in addition to being a competent professional. Probably.

  “He’s in DC today. Some big exposé among the lobbyists.” Pruett had won two Pulitzers and numerous other awards for his investigative reporting. From her reaction, I surmised that Sheriff Page had probably been closely following his progress.

  Magdalen asked me to stay during her interview and the sheriff agreed. Her manner was low-key, probing but not hostile. A method designed to elicit information without alarming the subject.

  “Why did you leave the Falls so hastily?” she asked. “Did something frighten you?”

  Magdalen explained about the incidents with her pills and the ransacking of her belongings. “Packages are never delivered that late,” she said. “When I heard the commotion, I panicked.”

  Aleita Page shook her head. “Understood. But taking Nurse Ross’s car caused us a spot of bother. Chain of evidence, you know. I wish you had come to me instead.”

  “Sheriff, the doctors at the Falls think I’m senile. For all I know they think I’m homicidal as well. Nurse Ross was the only one who took me seriously. We weren’t friends exactly, but we understood each other. Her death grieves me.”

  That was my cue. I asked Aleita Page about the autopsy results on Nurse Ross and the analysis of the chocolate. She demurred initially, but I persisted. “Nurse Ross officially died of a heart attack,” she said.

  There was more to that story and I intended to get it. “Did anything in that candy cause her death? I understand she had heart problems.”

  Aleita hesitated. �
��Forensic analysis isn’t complete yet, but it looks like poison was injected into those sweets. Apparently, the victim ate five or six pieces, enough to disrupt her heart rhythm.”

  Magdalen folded her arms and nodded. “I wondered about that. My friend heard her complain about her tricky heart, but frankly we thought it was a sympathy ploy. She was greedy for sweets, you see. Probably wanted to eat her fill before she shared them with the other nurses. Never eat sweets myself, but some people can’t resist.”

  Aleita spread her arms wide. “I’m not a physician, so don’t quote me. One thing is certain, though. Someone tampered with that candy, perhaps someone who didn’t know your habits.”

  Most people would dive into an elegant box of chocolates. I shuddered picturing Babette doing that very thing. Meanwhile Sheriff Page moved on. “Tell me, Ms. Melmoth, why would someone wish to harm you? Have you offended anyone? Made any enemies?”

  Magdalen’s composure was sublime. I suddenly realized that for a sweet old lady, she wasn’t all that sweet.

  “Your friend Irene Wilson mentioned a manuscript. Anything to that?”

  I stared straight ahead as Magdalen responded. “My grandfather, Sebastian Melmoth, was a literary genius. He wrote a wonderful novel that I’ve asked Perri and Mr. Pruett to help me find.”

  Aleita Page took a note and looked up. “Hmm. Melmoth—don’t think I’ve heard of him.” Her tone was slightly patronizing, bordering on dismissive.

  My admiration for Magdalen swelled yet again. By telling the absolute truth, she had totally disarmed the sheriff. Well played, Magdalen! After a few mundane inquiries, the interview ended. Magdalen agreed to ride with the sheriff while her deputy drove Carole Ross’s car back to the Falls. After hugging my pets and me, Magdalen Melmoth gathered her things and took her journey back to western Virginia.

  Chapter 10

  I considered waiting for Pruett, but curiosity consumed me. Tidy up the guest room, I told myself without much conviction. Who knew what might be in there? Truth was, I was drawn to that spot as ineluctably as a fly to honey. Through sheer force of will I finished my chores and made tea before creeping upstairs into the guest room. As Magdalen’s potential heir, I had certain responsibilities that I simply could not shirk, and finding that manuscript was priority number one. She was counting on me.

  Everything was as I expected, neat and tidy. Used sheets were carefully folded and the bedspread was draped over the pillows. True to her word, Magdalen had left a thick manila envelope with my name on it in the center of the bed. Before tearing into it, I experienced a brief period of self-doubt. Should I wait for Pruett or Babette? They were my partners after all, and deserved to share in the excitement. I debated the pros and cons and rather quickly decided on action over apathy. For all we knew, something in that folder might be time sensitive and require my immediate attention. On the other hand, why waste their time if the information was useless?

  Thatcher sealed the deal by leaping on the bed and kneading the envelope. That seemed like an auspicious sign, an implied permission to proceed. I carefully pried open the flap and slid out the contents. The first items were unspectacular and a trifle mundane: the birth certificates of Magdalen and her parents, and the wedding documents of Sebastian Fingal Melmoth and Henrietta Kingsbury. A sad missive from the war office announced Sebastian’s death, in service to king and country. A subsequent record listed the marriage of Henrietta Melmoth to one Declan Farraday. I hesitated, then sifted through the documents back to Magdalen’s father’s birth certificate. It listed his parents as Sebastian Wills Melmoth and Jennifer O’Flahertie, and the year was 1899, twelve months before Oscar Wilde’s death. the following November. Was it possible? Was Magdalen’s father truly the offspring of the literary great?

  I shivered with anticipation as I continued riffling through the documents. Unfortunately, it appeared there was no smoking gun, no absolute clue pointing to the manuscript. Then a packet of letters festooned with elaborate ribbons caught my eye. They were handwritten in a highly decorative cursive style that had almost vanished with the computer age. A slight hint of lavender wafted from the thin, wrinkled sheets, adding to the mystique. Reading another’s correspondence always seemed like an invasion of privacy to me, even when the parties involved had long since departed from the earth. I salved my conscience, curled up in the corner wing chair, and snuggled under a mohair throw.

  The letters dated from the years 1939 to 1940. To avoid the horrors of the blitz, Magdalen and her mother had taken refuge on the Kingsbury family estate in Ireland while their husband and father languished on the front lines. The letters contained intimate portraits of a young family, filled with anecdotes about Magdalen and hopes for the future. Those hopes were dashed in 1940, when Fingal Melmoth was killed in battle. Only in his final missive did Magdalen’s father refer to his own parents and what he termed their “legacy.”

  I took a deep breath before reading further. Would this provide a vital clue? The young father and husband fondly recalled his childhood, his father’s brilliance at Oxford, and his mother’s active participation in women’s suffrage. One line was of particular interest: “Mother praised Father’s success in the classics. She cherished his many writings, especially the novel Sybil Vane, a sequel to his previous fiction. I never knew my father, but her portrayal of him was so vivid that his presence was ever with me. I trust you will preserve it for Magdalen as part of her heritage.”

  Talk about feeling gobsmacked! There, in a few words, a young soldier expressed his fondest hopes for his child’s future and established a possible link to literary history.

  The impact of those words made my head spin. I leaned back in the chair, closed my eyes, and considered my options. Pruett was probably unavailable, haring off after some political scandal or other. I seldom called him during working hours unless it was a true emergency. No need to appear possessive or tiresome, or to risk rejection. Babette, on the other hand, would abandon whatever she was doing and immediately hightail it over to my house. She would descend on me, demand instant access to the material, and propound a dozen courses of action, most of which were impractical. Just thinking of it left me weary and indecisive.

  Fortunately, fate intervened before I made any decision. The sound of Zeke’s braying sparked a noisy reaction from the Malinois, and alerted me that a visitor had arrived. I parted the drapes and peered out. The figure of a man laden with files emerged from an unfamiliar black Cadillac sedan. I was uneasy until I spied a blaze of red hair under his fedora. Who else could it be but the sturdy figure of Micah Briggs, an infrequent but always welcome visitor? Before greeting him, I hastily texted Babette. Despite having confronted danger and almost certain death at times, I was unwilling to face the explosive reaction of Babette Croy if she was excluded from Micah’s visit.

  “Perri,” Micah said, kissing my hand. “Forgive me for invading your privacy. I had paperwork for Magdalen and couldn’t reach her. I tried phoning you, but you didn’t answer. Wing said it was okay to drop this stuff off.”

  I blushed, picturing my cell phone resting comfortably in my office most of the day while I delved into Magdalen’s treasures. An unintelligent choice for a business owner, or anyone else for that matter.

  “Come on in,” I said. “Obviously you aren’t deterred by my ferocious guard dogs.” In a shocking loss of dignity, both Keats and Poe hovered around Micah, begging for attention.

  “They know me,” he said. “Probably those liver treats I always carry.”

  I cleared a space for his folders on the kitchen table and fired up the Nespresso machine. “I’m glad you’re here. For several reasons. Besides the chance to catch up with you, I could use some lawyerly advice.”

  Micah blushed. It was a strange reaction from the attorney dubbed “DC’s legal pit bull,” although I’d always suspected that beneath the gruff exterior lurked a shy and solitary man.

  He gave a c
ourtly half bow and said, “At your service, ma’am. Anything to oblige.” After I explained the situation Micah frowned. “Wow! Give me a minute to think. Magdalen is my client, so things could get tricky.”

  We sipped our espresso in silence as Micah pondered. Finally he took the simplest, most direct approach. He phoned Magdalen and got her permission to join the hunt for the manuscript.

  “That was painless,” Micah said. “Magdalen was thrilled.” He hesitated. “She sounded tired, though. I suppose at her age all this excitement takes its toll.”

  I heard the crunch of tires on gravel and the joyful barking of my dogs. Soon enough Babette Croy rapped on my door, full of exuberance and primed for action. Her flawless appearance confirmed all my suspicions: Babette had brought out the big guns to impress Micah. His reaction was priceless but not unexpected. Once again he seemed less pit bull than golden retriever, disarmed and made slightly shy by the apparition that confronted him.

  “Glad I caught y’all,” Babette said. “This is all so thrillin’. I’m devoted to Oscar Wilde, you know. Can’t get enough.”

  Micah didn’t know that, and neither did I. Despite her many virtues, Babette was scarcely a literary scholar and I doubted she had read much if any of Wilde’s work. I shrugged it off. It didn’t really matter anyway. To aid Magdalen we needed a laserlike focus on the main prize, if it actually existed: the novel Sybil Vane.

  Micah adjusted his reading glasses as he and Babette pored over the material. They sat close together, although it might have been more by necessity than choice on his part. I had absolutely no doubt what Babette’s motives were.

  When they finished Micah cleared his throat and finally spoke. “Very interesting,” he said. “Suggestive, although not conclusive.”