by Arlene Kay
“So, you met Carrick Farraday,” Magdalen said. “Sounds like he hasn’t lost his charm over the years. He was always such a scamp.”
Control yourself, I thought. Remember, she’s an old lady, not some fresh recruit. “Why didn’t you tell us where he lived, Magdalen? It would have saved so much time.”
Nothing fazed this woman. She was made of pure steel. “I had faith in your group, dear. I knew you’d get there without my help.” Magdalen lowered her eyes. “And quite frankly I worried that after all this time, Carrick might have forgotten me, or worse still that he might not be compos mentis anymore.” She and Irene exchanged looks. “We see that all the time around here. Of course, Carrick is considerably younger than our residents.”
Babette immediately applied a liberal dose of soft soap. “We understand, Magdalen. Don’t we, Irene? After all, there’s no real harm done. We’ve been cookin’ up plans for a big ole family reunion. Wait ’til you see those dogs of his!”
I took several deep breaths. Self-control was critical in situations like this. “Carrick has some of your family papers. He even invited us to sort through them.”
Magdalen clapped her hands. “Perfect! How dear of him to keep my mother’s things after all these years.”
“Speaking of mementos, Dr. Fergueson said each resident has a storage area. Any chance that the manuscript might be there?” I spoke through gritted teeth, trying mightily not to upset her.
Irene Wilson gasped. “My, oh my. I forgot all about those old lockers. Mine is chock full of stuff and I bet yours is too, Mags.”
Magdalen leaned her head against the sofa back. “Of course. It’s so taxing to traipse down there that I’ve totally put it out of my mind.” She hesitated. “The last person I spoke to about that was Nurse Ross. She offered to sort through it for me and I gave her my key.”
I shuddered, fearing the worst. “When was that?”
Magdalen sighed. “The day before she was murdered. She never did return that key.”
My mind was going nonstop and my thoughts weren’t pretty. Had Nurse Carole Ross found something in Magdalen’s papers that cost her her life? That didn’t make any sense. The murderer had no guarantee that the nurse and not Magdalen would consume the sweets. I made a mental note to self to have Pruett check with his pal Sheriff Aleita about that key. If it were missing, one had to suppose that anything of value in that locker would be long gone. Either way, before we left I would ask Dr. Fergueson to change the locks.
“When would you like to meet Carrick?” I asked Magdalen. “Pruett and Micah will join us, of course.”
Babette rubbed her hands together. “We need to get this show on the road PDQ. What’s your weekend lookin’ like, Magdalen?”
Irene’s smile was a mile wide. “Oh, this is so exciting. Like a treasure hunt or one of those PBS mysteries.” She put her arm around Magdalen’s shoulders and gently squeezed them.
“I suppose Saturday would be alright if it’s convenient for Carrick.” She bit her lip. “Truth be told, I dread the whole thing. Maybe we should leave the past alone. My parents were fine people no matter what their lineage was.”
This was a different side of the intrepid Magdalen Melmoth I had come to know and admire. I understood her fear, but it still disappointed me. Perhaps even superheroes have their limitations.
“It’s totally up to you, of course. We never mentioned your name to Carrick, or your whereabouts.”
Magdalen rose and plucked her copy of Dorian Gray from the bookcase. The connection appeared to strengthen her, and when she turned to face us, her hands were steady. “Go ahead and make the arrangements, Perri. The Good Book says that the truth will set us free. I guess it’s about time I faced facts.”
* * * *
Joan Fergueson was absent when we went to find her, but to Babette’s delight, Dr. Tully had taken her place. I had to admit that my pal was right about one thing: Tully not only looked good, he also possessed the rare gift of staring into a woman’s eyes and actually listening to her, or appearing to do so. He beckoned us over to a sofa and immediately embarked upon a fulsome display of praise for our efforts.
“Your kindness overwhelms me,” he said in his plummy voice. “The residents live for these sessions with your therapy dogs.”
Babette beamed as if he had proffered a priceless gem. “It’s nothin’,” she lisped, fluttering those long lashes of hers. “We love comin’ here, don’t we, Perri?”
Tully made me recall something Magdalen had said. He really was smarmy! Scrape off the good looks and glamorous veneer and you might well find the soul of a confidence man, or even a killer.
I steered Babette back into safe harbor. “Sharing our dogs enriches us too, Dr. Tully. While we’re on the subject, I need the key to Magdalen Melmoth’s carrel. She lent hers to Nurse Ross on the sad night she passed away.”
His reaction was so flawless, I had no idea whether it was genuine or manufactured. “Unfortunate,” he said. “We frown on staff members doing special favors for our residents. Erodes morale, you see.”
I matched his smile with one of my own. “I totally understand. Dr. Fergueson said that you keep a copy of each resident’s key. Mrs. Croy and I will take a quick peak at the locker and return the key to you before we leave.” I raised my hand. “Promise.”
I had to admit his smile was captivating. Babette must have agreed because she loudly sighed as Tully headed toward his office.
“Give me a second while I find it,” he said. When he returned, he held two keys in his hand. “Funny thing. Carole must have returned the key to our office. Well, no matter.” He handed me the numbered key. “I’ll be at lunch, so just drop it in this envelope when you’re done.”
Babette started to protest until I stomped on her toe—hard. She gave me a puzzled look, but stayed silent until Tully left the area. “What’s the big deal, Perri? That hurt!”
I herded her toward the elevator and pushed the Down button. “Wait ’til the guys hear this. Carole Ross got that key the day she died. She returned it to Dr. F sometime that same evening. Why didn’t Magdalen mention that?”
“Sounds fishy to me,” Babette said. “Or maybe she forgot. She’s no teenager, for heaven’s sake. Maybe old Mags lost a step or two.”
The elevator door opened noisily into a darkened corridor faintly illuminated by those unsightly, utilitarian light bulbs that supposedly help to save the planet. In typical fashion, Babette shrank back, allowing me to precede her. I fervently hoped that no rodent would make an appearance while we were there; my pal had an almost pathological fear of them. I’d seen Babette totally lose control and a bout of hysteria was not on my agenda for today. To be sure, I was no fan of rodents either, but during my stint in the army I’d learned to endure them and a number of other unpleasant things I hoped to never again see.
The lockers were large, padlocked spaces separated by numbered signs. We had no trouble at all locating Magdalen’s. Like her, it was neat, almost prim, with labeled wire baskets arrayed on each shelf.
“Look for the one that says ‘documents,’” I said. “According to Magdalen, it has all her papers. Too bad the light isn’t better in this place.”
Babette reached into her capacious handbag and produced a SureFire flashlight. “Here we go. I never leave home without this baby. That ribbed surface is designed to bop an attacker right where it hurts.”
“What?”
“On the nose, Perri. The nose. For heaven’s sake, woman, get your mind out of the gutter.”
If I’d thought about it, I would have blushed. Fortunately I was so focused that her ribald comment sailed right over my head. “Here. Check out these photo albums.” I handed several of the elaborate, hand-tooled leather books to Babette, while I sorted through a pile of folders. Most contained utilitarian items such as tax returns, receipts, recipes, and deeds. Suddenly one docum
ent with an official seal caught my eye. My hand shook a bit as I unfolded it.
“Hey,” I shouted to Babette. “Check this out.”
Her response was less than enthusiastic. Babette was nose deep in those photo albums from yesteryear and had no desire to return to the present. I called to her again, more urgently this time.
“For Pete’s sake, I’m not deaf. What’s so darn important?” she snarled as she snapped the album shut. “Can’t a body get any peace around here?”
“We found it, at least I think we did. The smoking gun!”
“What?”
I brandished the document just beyond her reach. “What we have here is the last will and testament of Magdalen’s father, Sebastian Fingal Melmoth.”
Chapter 14
Babette was seldom speechless, but this was one of those times. She stared at me with her mouth agape and said nothing for at least two minutes. When she recovered, she leaped toward me and grabbed the corner of the will.
“Hey! Watch it. You’ll destroy evidence.” I pried her fingers from the document and held it aloft just out of her grip. Oh, the advantages of six extra inches of height! “Here. Calm down and we can both read it.”
Fingal’s will was concise. He endowed his bride with all his earthly goods, including his literary estate and that of his father, Sebastian Melmoth of Paris, France. In the event of Henrietta’s death, he decreed that all remaining items were the sole property of his daughter, Magdalen Melmoth. The legacy included stocks, cash on hand, and “all papers, manuscripts, and notes related to the literary product of the Melmoths, père et fils.”
Babette curled her lip. Pouting was one of my pal’s few faults and she had mastered the art. “Big deal. How does that even help us? Seems like a big mess to me.”
I held up my hand. “Hold on. This establishes that there is a body of work somewhere relating to Sebastian and Fingal Melmoth. It may amount to nothing, but it’s a start.” I tucked the document into my bag after checking my watch. “Grab those photo albums too. You never know what we might find. We had better make tracks or Dr. Dreamy will hunt us down.”
Babette grinned. “That doesn’t sound so bad to me. In fact, it might be fun.”
“I thought you were fixated on Micah. Don’t be greedy.”
She shrugged. “Never too much of a good thing, especially when it comes to men. Besides, every woman needs a doctor in the house.”
There was no reasoning with her when romance was in the offing. Despite four marriages and a few close calls, Babette remained the eternal optimist, ready and far too willing to love again. I ignored the banter and focused instead on the matter at hand. Sorting through Carrick Farraday’s papers now seemed more important than ever. One way or another it might bring closure to the issue of Sebastian Melmoth, Oscar Wilde, and the elusive Sybil Vane.
After depositing the key on the good doctor’s desk, we sped back to Magdalen’s room. She and Irene were engrossed in watching a mystery on PBS but were too polite to ignore us. Magdalen switched off the television and both ladies gave us their full attention. The albums captivated them. Although a number of the photos had faded with age, enough remained to properly set the scene. Magdalen winced as she viewed a formal portrait of her parents in full wedding regalia. They were posed in the severe fashion of the day, although her mother’s costume featured a short skirt, flapper style, and bobbed hair. Henrietta was quite a beauty, and judging by her saucy grin, I could see where Magdalen got her spunk. Fingal Melmoth was a tall, lanky youth with dark, dancing eyes and a shock of dark hair. The photo was dated 1928. Fingal would have been in his late twenties at that time, full of promise and high spirits. I racked my brain for memories of Oscar Wilde in the few photos I had seen. Was the resemblance real or perceived? I knew I was as susceptible to a romantic tale as anyone else in that room and the power of suggestion was stronger than I cared to admit.
Magdalen’s hand trembled as she caressed the photo. I imagined that her thoughts were far away, with the father she had known for far too short a time.
“I was born five years later,” she said. “Scandalous in those days, you see. Babies were expected within the first year. But my mother didn’t care. Other people’s opinions never bothered her one bit.” She sighed as she flipped through pages of the young couple, joined later by a baby in her pram, and a menagerie of pets including dogs, cats, and horses.
“Your dad could have skipped his war service, couldn’t he? He was forty or so when the Second World War broke out.” Irene squeezed her friend’s hand. “I had plenty of uncles in that fracas, but my father had a bad heart and was rejected.”
They spent some sharing memories of those days when any man who was physically able insisted on joining up. It was a world that was both foreign and familiar to me and I soaked up every particle of information.
With typical candor, Babette brought us back to reality. “No sign of your dad’s parents in there, Magdalen. Too bad. That would have cinched things for us. What a couple!” Babette cried. “Your parents were so good lookin,’ Magdalen. You sure favor your Mom.”
She agreed that her mother was considered a great beauty. “Dad wooed her so ardently that she simply couldn’t resist even though he was penniless.” She sighed. “He wrote her all manner of love poems too. People did in those days, you know.”
Irene signed. “Too bad they stopped doing that. Emails just don’t do it for me.”
Poems! I recalled the love letters in the first batch of documents— fastened with ribbons and lovingly preserved. Were folks more sentimental in those times? Perhaps not. Today’s lovers hoarded emails and texts with the same devotion. Different times, different methods, similar goals. If Henrietta Melmoth Farraday saved those mementos, as I felt certain she did, they might provide important links to the past. My fingertips tingled with anticipation. Perhaps the answers we sought were slumbering undisturbed in Carrick Farraday’s attic. My sense of urgency increased. All the more reason to arrange that reunion as soon as possible. Time was our enemy in this duel with the past.
I knew that Carrick would enjoy sharing memories with Magdalen, and I suggested that she bring the albums with her. After she agreed, Babette and I said our goodbyes and sped back to Great Marsh with our mission partially accomplished.
* * * *
Micah acted as our liaison with Carrick Farraday. The arrangement worked well because attorneys were accustomed to delays and impervious to any slights real or perceived. Magdalen was his client, which conferred upon him the necessary imprimatur to deal on her behalf. Pruett rescheduled everything on his agenda in order to accompany us. When that boy smelled a big story nothing and no one would keep him from his appointed rounds. Sort of like the postal service without the uniform or federal benefits. With masterful self-control I resisted the temptation to picture Pruett in the summer shorts workers wore in the DC area. After all, we had a mission to accomplish.
Babette had her own agenda. When we assembled at my place on Saturday morning, I spied a giant dog crate wedged in the back of her Range Rover and a smug expression on her face.
“Where’s Clara?” I asked, although I already knew the answer. Babette intended to lay claim to the pup Prospero and didn’t want to frighten him by immediately introducing another dog into the mix. “He’s not old enough to leave yet,” I objected. “They like pups to be at least seven weeks before they leave their mothers. Some breeders say eight or nine weeks.”
Babette gave me a poisonous look. “I know that, Perri. You’re not the only one who understands dogs, you know. Carrick and I have already discussed the issue. The crate will help familiarize Prospero with my scent and Clara’s too.”
Nothing about my BFF surprised me anymore. When Babette got a notion in her head, she was a force to be reckoned with. I’d learned to get out of her way or prepare to be mowed down. Why hadn’t she mentioned her negotiations with Carri
ck about the pup? I wondered what other information they might have exchanged.
Micah and Pruett agreed to swing by the Falls to pick up Magdalen, an arrangement she had readily agreed to. Few women would protest having two handsome guys as their escort and Magdalen was at heart a bit of a flirt.
When we reached Carrick’s compound, it was deserted except for a battered pickup truck and his dog van. Like most show people, Carrick had a conversion vehicle modified to accommodate dogs, drains, and crates. It wasn’t fancy like Steady Eddie, Babette’s behemoth, but it was functional. Carrick had adapted a traditional box truck into a practical model for his giant canines. It reminded me of the man himself: sturdy, no frills, and dependable.
As soon as we exited the car, Paddy issued his mournful, warning bark and ambled over to greet us. This time I didn’t hesitate. I bent down and gave the furry giant a big hug and a nose kiss.
“He’s one lucky lad, that boy.” Carrick appeared from the side of the house and greeted us. He helped Babette wrestle the crate from her Rover without mentioning Prospero or their arrangement. We begged for a chance to see the pups again while we waited for the others to arrive. In the ten days since we first met them, the brood had transformed from furry bundles to assertive babies too cute to resist. Babette immediately scooped Prospero into her arms and cradled his head. “Isn’t he special?” she asked. “I feel so lucky to have him.”
Carrick tried unsuccessfully to hide his pride, but a big grin spread all over his face. “A gift from the Almighty, that’s what they are. Makes a man feel just a little bit closer to heaven. I know this lad will have a good life with you, Mrs. Croy.”
He didn’t know the half of it! We adjourned to the house for tea while awaiting the rest of our crew and I explained Magdalen’s excitement and angst at meeting him again. “Her heritage is so important to Magdalen, especially her father’s side of the family.” I deliberately chose not to mention the manuscript or that Irish genius of another age. That was Magdalen’s prerogative.