Faith, Sir, we are here today, and gone tomorrow.
—APHRA BEHN
I STUMBLED OUT of the house just as Detective Stewart arrived. He jumped from his car and rushed over. “What happened?” he barked at me, his expression black.
I took several deep breaths before answering. I finally spit out, “Jackie. Dead. Backyard,” before collapsing in an ungraceful heap on the stoop.
He raced into the house. I did not follow. The cold and the snow pelted my face with harsh little jabs, but I stayed slumped on the front steps. I had had enough of dead bodies.
Moments later, Detective Stewart rushed from the house and grabbed the radio in his car. He barked out orders for police backup and the coroner. Then he jogged over to me. “What happened?”
I tilted my head back. Snowflakes swirled around his face, making his expression hard to read. “I got worried when I couldn’t reach Jackie on the phone,” I said. “So I came over here to make sure everything was all right.”
He pulled out his notebook. “Tell me again what happened this morning at the inn.”
“Jackie showed up shouting she knew who the killer was. She’d been trying to get in touch with you. She still had it in her head that you and I were working together and she asked me to call you. She said she’d be home for a little while, but then she had to go and meet Linnet for lunch.”
“Did anyone else hear her say she knew who the murderer was?”
“They could have. Everyone was coming out of the reading room when she was talking to me in the foyer. When she noticed them, she stopped talking and abruptly left. She looked upset,” I said, recalling her ashen face.
Detective Stewart’s mouth set in a grim line. “Who was there?”
“Daniel, Polly, and the Andersons.”
“Did Ms. Tanner say why she thought she knew who the killer was?”
I had been dreading this question, but I knew I had to answer it. “Yes. She said it had something to do with the lights.” I faced him defiantly.
“I see.” His eyebrow inched up. I knew what he was thinking: Aunt Winnie had been the one who turned out the lights.
Sirens wailed in the distance. A chill that had nothing to do with the weather overtook me and I wrapped my arms around my legs and put my head on my knees. I stayed that way for a long time.
Within minutes the house was overrun with police. They rushed in and out of the house, taking pictures, dusting for fingerprints, and asking me duplicate questions. I was still hunched on the front steps. I could no longer feel my bottom, but I didn’t want to go back inside the house. Someone—I think Detective Stewart—gave me a cup of coffee. I think he spiked it with some brandy, too. I held the warm cup between my hands and stared at the snow. It fell in thick white sheets. I was so caught up in watching the swirling patterns that I didn’t notice the car pulling into the driveway.
A medium-size bear got out of a gold Jaguar and stared at me. I closed my eyes and tried again. This time my brain correctly interpreted the image. I was not seeing an escaped circus act; I was looking at Linnet Westin. She was wearing the long fur coat she’d worn on New Year’s Eve. She had added a fur hat and fur-lined boots. She looked like the poster girl for an anti-PETA campaign.
I set down the coffee, now convinced it contained brandy, and stood up.
Linnet’s crisp, haughty voice rang out. “Elizabeth! Just what is going on here?” From her tone, I fleetingly wondered if she thought I had been hosting a small party for the Cape’s emergency rescue squad in her absence.
“Mrs. Westin—” I began, but she cut me off.
“And where is Jackie?” She slammed her car door shut in annoyance. “She was supposed to meet me over an hour ago with my contacts. I can’t find my cell phone, so I couldn’t call her to find out where she went.” She gingerly stepped out from behind the car, her normally confident stride hindered by the icy road.
“What is going on here anyway?” she demanded. Her mouth formed a crimson O as she made the connection between the police cars and Jackie’s absence. “Oh, dear God!” she gasped, in a tight frightened voice. “Jackie! Is she all right?” She started for the front door. I reached out and grabbed her arm.
“Mrs. Westin,” I said gently. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to tell you this, but …”
“Where is she?” she whispered. I couldn’t see her eyes behind her large Jackie O. sunglasses, but the panic in her voice was unmistakable.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Westin, but she’s … she’s dead.”
My words hung in the air and I had a mad thought that maybe the wind could blow them away.
“Dead?” she repeated. “But she can’t be! I just saw her this morning! How can she be dead? What happened?”
Where the hell was Detective Stewart? Did I really have to be the one to tell this woman that her oldest friend had been murdered? I glanced through the doorway at the empty foyer. “I’m not sure exactly, Mrs. Westin, but it looks as if she’s been murdered.”
Linnet said nothing for a full minute. Underneath her heavy makeup, her face was pale. She swayed toward me and I grabbed her. “I think I’d better sit down,” she whispered.
She was unsteady on her feet. I maneuvered her into the house and into the living room, where I gently deposited her on the sofa. “Can I get you something?” I asked. “A drink, perhaps?”
She nodded vaguely and I hurried off in the direction of the kitchen. Detective Stewart stood talking to one of the many police officers that had swarmed into the house. “Mrs. Westin is here,” I said. “She’s in the living room. I told her about Jackie. She needs a drink. Where did you get whatever it was that you put in my coffee?”
“Cabinet next to the refrigerator, second shelf,” Detective Stewart said over his shoulder as he marched out to the living room.
I found the cabinet, took down the bottle of brandy, and poured a generous amount into a glass. Back in the living room, Detective Stewart was questioning Linnet. She had taken off her hat and coat but was clutching the latter in her lap like a security blanket. I doubt she realized that she was still wearing her sunglasses.
Her posture was rigid, and her grief was obvious. Her face had lost that hard, cold look; instead she seemed fragile and vulnerable. Her palpable distress made me regret all the nasty things I’d thought about her and her treatment of Jackie. I crossed over to where they sat, wrapped Linnet’s hand around the glass, and took a seat next to her on the sofa.
“Where were you this morning?” Detective Stewart was saying.
“I had to run a few errands in town,” Linnet answered weakly. “And then I went to the club to meet Jackie for lunch, but she never—”
“Your errands,” he said, “where were they?”
“The beauty shop and then some dress shops.”
Detective Stewart noted this down. “What time were you supposed to meet Ms. Tanner?”
“Eleven thirty.”
“What time did you leave the house this morning?”
“Around nine. My appointment was at nine thirty.”
“I see.” Detective Stewart paused. “I realize that you’ve only just arrived, but is anything missing that you can see? We need to rule out robbery.”
Linnet scanned the room with a vague expression and shook her head. “No, not that I can see. But I’ll check my jewelry box in my room. I’m sure Jackie didn’t have anything of value.”
“Okay. Did Ms. Tanner have any relatives that you know of? Next of kin, that sort of thing?”
“No. She doesn’t … didn’t. Only me, I guess, and we were only distant cousins.” Her face crumpled. She took a drink from the glass, and after a steadying breath she added, “She was an only child and never married.”
“No children?”
Linnet sat up straighter on the sofa and said sternly, “Of course not, Detective. As I said, Jackie never married. To suggest a child outside of marriage is offensive!”
A crimson blush stained the back of Detective Stewart’s neck. “I meant no offense, ma’am. It’s a standard question.”
“Well, it’s a damn silly one, if you ask me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He went on quickly. “Mrs. Westin, it has come to our attention that Ms. Tanner thought she knew who killed Gerald Ramsey.” Linnet rejected this statement with a shake of her head. Not a strand of her perfectly coiffed hair moved as she did so. “Jackie said that? But that can’t be right. She never said a word to me!”
“It’s true, Mrs. Westin,” I said. “She told me so this morning. She was trying to get in touch with the police so she could tell them.”
Linnet’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “But who was it? Did she tell anybody?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Detective Stewart. “But she did announce her plans at the inn this morning. We are concerned that she was overheard and that’s why she was killed.”
“Oh, dear God,” moaned Linnet. “Did she say why she thought she knew?”
“All we know is that it had something to do with the lights.”
“The lights?” repeated Linnet thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, she did say something about the lights.”
“Do you remember what?” said Detective Stewart, leaning forward. His voice was urgent. I held my breath and waited for her to answer.
She shook her head apologetically. “I’m afraid I don’t, Detective. Jackie had a tendency to ramble on and I’m embarrassed to say that I didn’t always pay attention.” Her face crumpled. “Maybe if I had, she’d still be alive. This is my fault. If I hadn’t had the idea to go to the mystery dinner in the first place, then none of this would have happened.”
I grabbed her hand. Giving it a squeeze, I said, “That’s not true, Mrs. Westin. None of this is your fault.”
“That’s right,” said Detective Stewart. His face was red and his lips were pressed together in a hard, thin line. “I promise you, Mrs. Westin. I will find out who did this.”
After a few more questions, Detective Stewart asked Linnet to identify the body. “I am sorry to have to ask you to do this, but as you are probably the closest thing to a next of kin …” His words trailed off.
“I understand, Detective,” she said, standing up. “I’m ready.” She was still holding my hand. From the death grip she had on it, it was clear that she had no intention of letting it go.
Together we followed Detective Stewart to the sunroom. Thrown over a chair was Jackie’s gigantic afghan with its cheerful stripes of white, green, and blue. Had she been happily working on it when her killer came? I turned away, sick. As we approached the side door, my throat constricted. I felt as if I were trying to breathe through a straw. Linnet showed no sign of letting go of my hand. I continued forward.
The body still lay where I had found it, although a white sheet now covered it. Detective Stewart walked over and pulled the sheet back. The blue hat fell limply to one side, revealing the sparse white hair that Jackie had so carefully hidden with her hats. I averted my eyes; I simply couldn’t stomach another viewing. Beside me, Linnet jerked her hand up to her mouth. “Jackie,” she moaned.
Detective Stewart looked up at her. “Is this Ms. Tanner?”
Linnet nodded, her hand still pressed to her mouth and her eyes riveted on the body. I gently turned her away and helped her back inside. “I think I’d like to lie down now,” she said, her voice small. I walked her up the stairs. Her movements were slow and unsteady. At the top landing, she paused as if unsure of her surroundings. Fearing that she might be in shock, I steered her in the direction of her room. She sank heavily onto the bed and flung her arm across her face.
“Would you like me to call a doctor?” I asked.
She shook her head. I sat beside her on the bed for a moment before going back downstairs.
Detective Stewart was waiting for me. “How is she?”
“Okay, I guess, but you probably should have one of the paramedics check her out. She’s had a pretty nasty shock.” So had I, for that matter.
“What was their relationship like?” he asked. “Did she have anything to gain by Ms. Tanner’s death?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “This house is owned by Mrs. Westin. From what I gather, Jackie was down on her luck and Mrs. Westin invited her to live here as a kind of companion.”
“Did they get along?”
“As far as I could tell. I think Mrs. Westin lorded it over Jackie from time to time that she was here out of charity, and I think she sometimes treated her a bit shabbily. But I never saw Jackie get upset because of it.”
Detective Stewart nodded slowly, his mouth a tight line. Lost in thought, he turned and walked away toward the back of the house, slapping his battered notebook against his thigh as he went.