For precocity some great price is always
demanded sooner or later in life.
—MARGARET FULLER
HOLLY SPOKE FIRST. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth, I seem to have broken one of your cups.” Cradling the wet remains in her hands, she nodded at the front door. “What was that all about?” Her tone was casual, but her face was tense, her green eyes glittering like shards of sea glass.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “She wants to talk with Detective Stewart about something.”
Polly glanced at Daniel. “She didn’t say about what?”
If they hadn’t heard Jackie’s startling declaration, I wasn’t about to enlighten them. “Not so that I understood,” I said, shaking my head.
“Well,” she said, nodding at her hands, “I am sorry about the cup.”
“Don’t be.” I stepped forward to take the pieces from her. Her trembling hands were ice-cold. I looked at her in surprise. Her eyes were trained on my face as if she were trying to read something from it. But she said nothing more. She signaled to Daniel and they both crossed the foyer and slipped into their coats. “Be back later,” Daniel called over his shoulder as they stepped out into the freezing air.
Clutching the wet shards of china in my hands, I ran down the hall to the kitchen. Bursting through the door, I said, “Aunt Winnie, you’ll never guess what just happened!”
She was sitting at the table, a plate of toast and a cup of coffee in front of her. Eyeing the mess in my hands, she took a sip of coffee before intoning calmly, “You smashed one of my good coffee cups.”
“No, Polly did that,” I said, throwing the remains in the trash. I turned to her and in an excited whisper, blurted out, “Jackie was just here. She says she knows the identity of the killer!”
Aunt Winnie slammed her cup down on the table. “You’re kidding! Who?”
“She didn’t say. She wants to get in touch with Detective Stewart first, but she can’t reach him.” I looked down at my hands, realized they were covered with coffee drippings, and moved to the sink to wash them. I couldn’t seem to stand still.
Aunt Winnie’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. Why did she come here?”
I yanked the faucet off and turned back to Aunt Winnie. Jackie’s startling announcement had left me with a rush of adrenaline and I now drummed my fingers nervously on the countertop. “She has it in her head that I’m working with Detective Stewart. Apparently she thinks I’ve got a better chance of reaching him.”
“Did she say anything else? What makes her think she knows who did it?” Aunt Winnie was now standing, too, her foot tapping out a rhythm similar to my fingers.
“She said it had to do with the lights, but I don’t know what that means.” I paced back and forth between the sink and the table while I tried to make sense of that statement. Lady Catherine appeared. Perching on the chair opposite Aunt Winnie, she nonchalantly tried to steal a piece of toast.
“The lights? What about the lights?” Aunt Winnie asked, her voice sharp. Without looking, she shoved Lady Catherine off the chair.
“She didn’t say. Everyone came into the foyer from the reading room and she left.” I knew it was silly, but hope began to rise in my chest. Maybe this nightmare was about to end. If, by some miracle of heaven, Jackie had solved the mystery, then Aunt Winnie would be safe. But that said, I couldn’t stand this inaction anymore. “I’m going to try to get hold of Detective Stewart,” I said. “Jackie said she’s going to be home for a bit. Then she has to meet Linnet for lunch.”
“I’m going to call Randy.” Aunt Winnie quit the kitchen and headed for her room.
I rushed back to Aunt Winnie’s office, where I resumed my search for Detective Stewart’s number. As I rummaged through the desk, Henry appeared in the doorway. “Elizabeth?” he said. He stepped into the room and, amazingly, shut the door softly behind him. “I’m here for my watch.”
With his presence the tiny, cramped office seemed to shrink even farther. Henry had never struck me as an imposing man. But now, alone with him in Aunt Winnie’s office with the door closed, he seemed large and menacing.
“Of course, Mr. Anderson,” I said crisply. “I have it right here.” My stomach was churning, but at least I thought I sounded in control. I reached into my pant pocket and handed it to him.
“Thank you.” His thick fingers grasped the watch.
“It’s very nice,” I babbled. “But I think Mrs. Anderson is right—you really should get the clasp fixed.”
“Um. Yes. You’re probably right.” He nodded quickly, sending a strand of limp brown hair down onto his forehead.
We stared at each other and then he said, “Well, thank you again for finding it.” He made no move to leave and I became more than ever aware of that closed door. Glancing at the desk, I searched for something I could use to defend myself should the need arise. A letter opener lay on top of a pile of papers and I palmed it. Granted, it wasn’t much, but it was metal. It would have to do. My only other defense in hurting him would be to shout out nasty things about Mrs. Kristell Dubois. I entertained a brief image of him falling, doubled over in pain, as I hollered, “Mrs. Kristell Dubois is a gauche, tarted-up old biddy.” Henry still made no move to leave; he seemed caught in some internal debate.
An idea came to me. “Don’t you want to know where I found it?” I asked, breaking the silence. It was clear that he did not.
Reluctantly, he said, “Where?”
I was taking a gamble, but given that someone had planted the tape in Aunt Winnie’s office, I had to try. “Here,” I said, gesturing toward the desk. “On the floor underneath the desk. I wonder how it ended up there.”
Henry’s dark eyes slid to where I had indicated. With a guarded expression, he said, “I have no idea.” He hadn’t blanched in shock, but I was sure he was upset. Clearing his throat, he seemed about to say more when the door opened. Peter poked his head around the door frame. “Elizabeth?” he said. “What’s going on? Oh, excuse me, Mr. Anderson. I didn’t see you.” Sensing the tense atmosphere, Peter asked, “Is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine,” Henry said. Without another word, he shoved past Peter and out of the office. As soon as he was gone, I sank heavily into the chair.
Peter turned to me. “What the hell was that all about?”
“I gave him back his watch. I told him I found it underneath the desk.”
“Why did you tell him that?”
“I don’t know. I thought that if he planted the tape here, he might look guilty or something.”
Peter cocked an eyebrow at me. “I see. Well, did he?”
“No. But he was upset. For a minute, I thought he was going to tell me something, but then you burst in and he left.” I sighed and gestured toward the desk. “Here, help me find Detective Stewart’s phone number. I’ve got to tell him about Jackie.”
Peter narrowed his eyes in confusion. “What about Jackie?”
“She came here this morning. She said she knows who the killer is—something about the lights. She wants me to call Detective Stewart for her. She hasn’t been able to reach him.”
“She said she knows who killed Gerald?” he said in astonishment. “Who?”
“I don’t know. Everyone came in from the reading room and she left.”
Confusion registered in his brown eyes. “But what did she say—and why did she say it to you?”
“I don’t know.” I rubbed my forehead. “She’s got this silly idea in her head that I’m working undercover with Detective Stewart. She probably thinks I can reach him on some secret bat line.”
“Secret bat line?” Peter repeated.
“It’s just an expression,” I snapped. “Just help me find the damn number.”
We pawed through the mess that was Aunt Winnie’s desk until Peter triumphantly held up a small white card. “Here it is. Detective Aloysius Stewart.” He paused and cocked an eyebrow at me. “His first name is Aloysius?”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, taking the card from him. “I think his mother was a fan of Evelyn Waugh.” I flipped open my cell phone; there was no signal. I pushed the papers on the desk to one side in the hopes that the phone was somewhere underneath them. It was not.
“You seem to know a lot about the man. Are you sure you’re not working undercover with him on this?”
“What?” I said. “Peter, I don’t have time for this right now. Just please help me find the damn phone!”
Only by backtracking from the wall cord were we able to unearth it. With shaking hands, I clumsily punched in the numbers. The line rang and rang, until finally Detective Stewart’s voice mail clicked on. In a voice so raspy it would have been comical at any other time, Detective Stewart gravely pronounced that he was out of the office but would check his messages and return them promptly. I blurted out a plea for him to call me and slammed down the receiver.
Slumping back down in the chair, I cradled my head in my hands. My head hurt.
From somewhere to my left, I heard Peter’s voice. “Elizabeth, are you all right?”
I raised my head. “No, Peter, I’m not. For God’s sake, I’m a stupid fact-checker at a newspaper. I studied English literature in school, not criminal justice!” The stress of the last few days broke over me and I rambled on, “I know that the name of Ulysses’ faithful dog is Argos. I know that in mythology, Truth is the Daughter of Time, and I know that it’s ‘such stuff as dreams are made on,’ not of. But what I don’t know is who killed Gerald Ramsey! I have a brain stuffed with useless bits of knowledge and I’m in the middle of a murder investigation and I don’t know what to do anymore!” Wearily, I dropped my head back in my hands.
After a brief silence, Peter said, “It’s not ‘the stuff that dreams are made of’? Are you sure?”
I opened my eyes and stared at him. “What?”
“I said, are you sure that it’s not ‘the stuff that dreams are made of’? Because that’s what Bogart says at the end of The Maltese Falcon.”
“Yes, I’m sure. And since when is Bogart the last word on Shakespeare?”
“He doesn’t have to be,” he said with a studied look of incomprehension. “He’s Bogart.”
“Get out,” I said.
“Maggie likes Bogart,” Peter began.
“Maggie also likes you, so that’s not exactly a point in her favor for excellent judgment.”
Peter snapped his fingers. “Carly Simon. She thinks so, too. She had that song, you know the one, where she sings, ‘It’s the stuff that dreams are made of.’ I really think you’re wrong on this.”
I threw the letter opener at him, hitting him in the arm.
“Hey! That hurt!” he yelped, rubbing the spot.
“Good. It was supposed to.”
He laughed. “Well, I’m glad to see that you’re feeling better. And now that you mention it, I do have some errands to run. I’ll be back soon.” He left, humming the Carly Simon song.
Taking Detective Stewart’s card with me, I walked back to the kitchen. Aunt Winnie wasn’t there, so I went to take a hot shower. Afterward, my headache was still in attendance, but in a slightly veiled way, as if it was just offstage waiting for its cue. Glancing out my window, I saw that the sky was an ominous mix of slate gray and dark purple; the clouds were thick and heavy.
Once I was dressed, I tried Detective Stewart again from my cell phone. Again, I got his voice mail. I left him a detailed message about Jackie and the necklace, and then called Jackie. There was no answer. An uneasy sensation crept over me and I had a sudden urge to get to Jackie’s house. Running down to Aunt Winnie’s room, I rapped on the door. No answer. Peter wasn’t back from his errands, so I scribbled a note that I was going to Jackie’s and left it on the kitchen table. With a growing sense of dread, I grabbed my purse and coat and ran to my car.
I drove as fast as I dared, but the wind was fierce and it buffeted my car around like a pinball. Holding tightly onto the steering wheel, I concentrated on keeping the car in my lane and not overreacting. Jackie was fine, I told myself. I was being unreasonable. She had probably easily found the contacts and left to give them to Linnet. From the way the hairs on my neck stood upright, I knew I didn’t really believe this a likely scenario. I called Detective Stewart’s voice mail once more to tell him that I was on my way to Jackie’s house and for him to reach me there. I didn’t even bother to control the rising panic in my voice.
Pulling into the circular driveway, I could see that the front door was ajar. Running up the front steps, I pushed the door open. “Hello?” I called out. “Is anybody here? It’s me—Elizabeth.”
Silence.
Cautiously, I slid inside, calling out inane phrases like, “Is anybody home? Linnet? Jackie? Hello?” After checking every room on the first floor for human habitation, I cautiously inched my way up the staircase. From the moment I had stepped inside the foyer, every atom of my being wanted to flee. My heart thudded in my chest and my skin crawled in anticipation of some unknown horror, but I forced myself to continue. Upstairs, only two rooms were in use. One was clearly Linnet’s. The furnishings were ornate and expensive. Atop a rolltop desk, numerous pictures of Linnet posing with everyone from celebrities to politicians over the years were prominently displayed. A large four-poster bed complete with tapestries sat regally in the middle of the room. On either side were intricately carved nightstands in the same design as the bed. One held a pitcher of bright fresh flowers; the other a lamp and some books. It had all the warmth and beauty of a museum. All that was missing was a red velvet rope strung across the door and a placard that read “Please do not sit on the furniture.” In French.
Jackie’s room was less flamboyant. There was a twin bed with a patchwork comforter and a dresser. On a white rocking chair sat a battered and well-loved-looking stuffed elephant. None of the room’s furnishings matched; the only thing they had in common was age. But to my taste it was preferable to Linnet’s room. It held no pictures, but as I turned to leave, my foot kicked a thin scrapbook by the bed. I picked it up and flipped through its yellowed pages. Unlike Linnet’s vast display, the major accomplishments of Jackie’s life were quietly preserved: her birth certificate, high school and college diplomas, a certificate of appreciation from Radcliffe’s drama department, a letter for promotion to head librarian at Ohio University, and finally a letter of commendation received upon her retirement. I shut the book and replaced it with a sense of sadness that a life spanning over seventy years could be captured in such a slim volume.
A third door off the hallway was closed. I had taken two steps toward it when a low moan filtered through its thick frame. The pitiful sound faded and was replaced by an erratic tapping noise. My mind’s eye saw a feeble hand desperately grasping for the door handle. Taking a steadying breath against what I might find on the other side, I yanked open the door. A few suitcases and a pile of boxes were the room’s only belongings. As I stood there, the moaning returned. I whirled around and saw the giant tree outside the window sway under the gusting wind, its protesting limbs groaning under the strain. Long spindly branches brushed at the glass.
A quick, and less emotionally hysterical, tour of the rest of the upstairs yielded nothing untoward. The house was empty. I reassured myself that Jackie probably hadn’t shut the front door tightly when she’d left and the wind had blown it back open. With my nerves once more intact, I walked downstairs, seriously wondering if I should seek some kind of medical treatment for my tendency to overreact. I was on the landing when I heard a door burst open and felt a blast of cold air.
It was coming from the sunroom. Walking in that direction, I saw that the wind had blown the side door open. A bundle of rags lay just outside. But as I reached out to shut the door, I saw that it wasn’t a bundle of rags. It was a body.
Stifling a scream, I edged closer. The body lay facedown. I didn’t need to turn it over to know who it was. The blue hat told me that well enough. A small smooth ear peeked out from under its floppy folds. With shaking hands, I felt for a pulse. The skin under my fingertips was cold and lifeless. As I pulled the hat back, my breath caught in my throat. Jackie had been beaten savagely; dried blood was smeared all through her sparse gray hair and her face was horribly bruised and swollen.
Above me the trees moaned again as if in sorrow just as the storm broke, unleashing a torrent of angry snowflakes.