A Deadly Draught (15 page)

“Teddy, Teddy. I assure you it’s perfectly legal. I didn’t mean to insult you, but your brews are pretty old stuff, you know, and I have just the thing to ramp up your sales. I own Ramford’s recipes. No, I own them. They belong to me and I can do anything I want to do with them. Right now, I’m using them here, but I might be interested in moving them to you, if the price is right. This is a one-time offering, so get back to me with your answer soon.”

Stanley flipped his phone closed but immediately opened it again.

“Francine? Hi, Stanley Frost here. I have something you might be interested in. We should talk. I can make your business.”

A hand squeezed my shoulder. Caught. I whirled around expecting to see Claudia, or perhaps Michael had returned. Ah, no, it was Jake. He placed his finger in front of his lips to signal me to be quiet, but Stanley appeared to be finished with his conversation. He dropped the phone into his pants pocket and walked past the fermenting vats and into the bottling room. He whistled as he left.

“What did you hear?” asked Jake.

“Uh, nothing much.”

“You’re lying. You’re supposed to be helping me find who murdered Mr. Ramford, and you’re holding back, probably protecting that one-time boyfriend of yours.”

“Stanley was ordering some more hops from Washington or Oregon or somewhere out there.”

“I can always tell when you’re lying. Your upper lip sweats. Here,” he said, handing me his handkerchief, “wipe it off.”

I batted his hand away. “Leave me alone, and don’t treat me like a servant or a child.” I moved toward the outside door.

“Oh,” I said, startled. Claudia stood near the door. Was it possible she could have been here all along, that I didn’t see her? Did she see me spying and hear Stanley?

Before I could say anything, Jake stepped in front of me. “Claudia. Good, I’m glad someone is home. Could I have a word with you? Some more questions have come up in your husband’s death,” Jake said. Jake had to have entered through the gift shop also, but it was clear he hadn’t seen her when he came in.

Claudia said nothing but arched one eyebrow and looked at me inquisitively.

“What are you doing here, my dear?” she asked. She spoke as if Jake were not present and hadn’t addressed her.

“I was looking for you,” I said.

“Not spying on us, were you? Trying to steal away the Ramford secrets to brewing beer?” She laughed, but I couldn’t tell if she was joking or serious about my snooping. She turned to face Jake.

“I’ve known Hera since she was five or so. She was a curious child even then, got my Michael into trouble. He wasn’t very daring as a boy. Too scared of his father to take chances. I thought Hera was good for him, gave him some sense of adventure. The girl had backbone. Still does. Come up to the house, and we’ll have tea.” Claudia turned her back and left the barn.

“I don’t have time for tea,” Jake whispered to me.

“If you want to get answers from this woman, trust me, you have time for tea. That’s the way she does things.” I grabbed his shirt and pulled him after me.

Instead of the great room, Claudia drew us to the back of the house into her sewing room. The walls were hung with her quilts, award-winning designs. They were pieces of art, actually.

She poured strong tea from an earthenware pot into large mugs. There was no inquiry as to milk or lemon, only the offer of sugar in a matching bowl. It appeared that Claudia was being rustic, leaving the bone china in her dining room cupboard in order to make Jake feel more comfortable. If that was her plan, it appeared to be working. He sat back in an overstuffed green-and-red-plaid chair sipping his tea and munching an oatmeal cookie. He looked as if he belonged in the house. I smiled to myself. Odd as it might seem, Jake had found a worthy opponent in Claudia. If he planned to take her off guard, she might be outmaneuvering him.

Claudia had always been an enigma to me. She presented a picture to the public of the long-suffering wife with a passion only for quilting, but I always picked up an undercurrent of keen intellect in her. In social settings, Claudia was quiet, always the perfect hostess. Something told me that behind that passive exterior, she observed, judged, and acted in her own time. And since the funeral, well, Claudia was different. Maybe the alcohol gave her hidden side the courage to emerge.

Jake stuffed another cookie in his mouth and followed it with a swallow of tea.

“About that gun, “ he said.

“The one you claim I bought, the one Hera’s father took his life with,” she said.

“Explain again why you purchased it.”

Claudia leaned forward and scrutinized Jake’s face carefully, then leaned back in her chair, obviously satisfied with what she saw on his features.

“Fine. You believe I bought the gun. Maybe I did.”

His next words told me he wouldn’t be satisfied by the vague confession of a grieving widow, no matter how sweet her tea or buttery her cookies.

“Mrs. Ramford, you lied to me about that gun. You told me someone forged your signature to the license and that you knew nothing about the gun. It’s time you told me the truth.”

“The truth? It was so long ago. I don’t think the truth matters now.”

“Murder always matters.”

“Hera knows part of the truth,” Claudia said.

“I do?”

“Why yes, dear. That’s why you’re here today, isn’t it, to talk to your father’s mistress?”

My mouth dropped open, and Jake coughed.

“Tea go down the wrong way, Mr. Ryan?” Claudia asked. She arose from her chair and thumped Jake on his back. “There, that should do it.”

Two pairs of eyes met mine. Their owners waited for me to speak. I didn’t know who was running this show, Jake or Claudia, but I knew I was the one who should be asking her the questions, not the other way around. I tried to regain my composure.

“I think I’ll let you tell the story. You were there, and I wasn’t even born yet.”

“Why are people so concerned about the past, I wonder? We live in the present, and that’s all we have. Like your father. So sentimental of him to save those letters. It happened a long time ago and really doesn’t make any difference now.”

Now that freaked me out. “How do you know I found those letters?” I asked. Had Sally told her about them? Not likely. Or did someone go through my house when I wasn’t there?

“That’s not important. I have my ways of finding out what happens around here. Oh, I know. People think I spend all my time quilting or gardening or serving tea.” She gestured with her hand in a dismissive manner. “But I’m a good listener, much like you, Hera, and I learn things, lots of things.” My breathing stopped. Did this mean she knew I was eavesdropping on Stanley in the barn?

“So. The letters. I wrote them to your father when both of us were newly married, and our marriages were less than what we expected. I thought he was what I needed, so attractive, gentle, sensitive. Not like my husband, who quickly left our marriage bed for others. I pursued your father relentlessly, but he never wavered from his marriage vows, although I know he was tempted.”

“That’s all very interesting, Mrs. Ramford,” interrupted Jake, “but I hardly see what this has to do with that pistol.”

“I confided in your father that I was sometimes afraid for my life. Michael Senior had a temper, and when he drank, he lost control.” She turned toward me. “You know what happened to poor Ronald. He bore the brunt of Michael’s temper. Your father told me I should get a gun for my own protection, so I did.”

“My dad suggested that?”

“As it turned out, the gun was unnecessary. Michael turned his attention to other things, mostly other women, gold, fancy cars, all the material things that success in brewing brings. Those diversions took the edge off his temper. He used Ronald as his outlet. My life was no longer in danger.”

“What about Ronald’s life?” I asked. I was horrified at the calm with which this woman was describing her situation and her disregard for her son.

“Ronald? I knew he’d leave when things got too bad. We were all safe then.” Cold. The woman was cold or lying or drunk.

“What happened to the gun then?” asked Jake.

“I gave it to Hera’s father, told him I didn’t know what to do with it. He said he’d take care of it for me. I guess he did. I didn’t know he would shoot himself in the head with it, did I?” I watched her closely as she said all of this. It fit with what had happened in the past, but it was her attitude as she spoke, as if she was reciting something she’d memorized. It was a story she was telling, just a story.

“Why would my dad save your letters?”

She shrugged her thin shoulders. “I don’t know. Embarrassing for all of us, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not embarrassing for all of us. It was a shock for me to read those letters and think Dad had a mistress. It shattered my image of him.” A tear worked its way down my cheek.

Claudia reached over and patted my knee. I jumped at her touch.

“Oh, of course it was a shock. I’m so sorry you thought badly of your father. You should have come to me sooner, and I could have cleared all this up.” She touched her head and pinched the ridge of her nose. “Those pills the doctor gave me when Michael died, I guess I’ve taken a few too many of them. I’m just not myself.” I looked into her eyes and saw some of the old, self-contained Claudia there.

“Who do you think killed your husband?” asked Jake. His tone was affable, and he was still drinking his tea and chomping on yet another cookie, but his eyes said cop.

“As I told you when you were here before, my husband wasn’t liked. He was feared and respected. Anyone could have killed him, but as you’ve discovered, everyone in this family has an alibi. I don’t know what to say.”

“Not everyone in the family has an alibi,” said Jake.
Who could he mean?
“Besides, alibis can be set up and broken,” he continued. “That’s not the question. I’d like to know who you think might have killed him.”

“Have you considered the wife?” Claudia said, then laughed.

I knew it. She was drunk or drugged, as she’d mentioned. Or playing with us.

“We’re looking at all family members,” Jake said.

“Even Ronald?” Claudia asked.

“We’re looking for Ronald, as are you, I understand,” Jake said.

“He’s dead,” said Claudia.

Fifteen

“I don’t believe her,” I said. Jake and I stood talking in front of our vehicles after tea.

“I think part of it was the truth, and part was a lie. I just can’t separate out the one from the other.”

“I guess you’re going to fire me from my position as amateur snoop, huh? I mean, because of those letters I didn’t tell you about.”

“That wasn’t very smart of you.“

“Go ahead. Yell at me.”

“I’m not going to yell at you. I understand why you didn’t want anyone to know about those letters. You read them, I didn’t, but they obviously led you to believe that your dad and Claudia were having an affair. That’s pretty awful for you, especially after how your dad died.”

“You understand?” I asked. I was stunned.

He nodded. “Just so there aren’t other things you aren’t sharing with me, things that might make it easier for me to break this case. There aren’t, are there?”

“Nope.” I hoped my lip wasn’t sweating. Just in case, I put my hand to my mouth to cover a feigned cough.

“Maybe Claudia’s drive isn’t the place for this conversation. Someplace more private?” Jake asked.

I was so wrapped up in thinking about those letters that I ignored his suggestion. “I was out of my mind with anger, sorrow, grief, whatever, when I read those letters but as I remember them, she was pretty explicit. I’m sure the letters indicated much more than a lonely, lovesick woman pursuing a man she couldn’t have.”

“Why would she deny an affair if there was one?” Jake asked. The words barely out of his mouth, he uttered a long, “Ohhhh.”

“A motive for murder? She killed my father so he couldn’t tell anyone about them?”

“Maybe, but two decades after the affair? Why wait so long?”

“I’m going to take a look at those letters again, and this time, you’re going to read them, too.” I said. “Oh damn! I have to get back home and begin filtering.” I jumped into the truck. Jake just stood there. “C’mon, then. I’ll teach you something about the beer business, then we can talk murder.” He looked confused. “The letters, you dummy. You need to read those letters. Hustle.” I shifted into gear and sped out the driveway. Jake followed as soon as he jumped into his truck. He was talking to himself, or so it seemed to me when I glanced in the rearview mirror.

*

“Do you think Ronald is dead? Are we chasing ghosts?” Jake asked.

“Why ask me? How would I know anything about Ronald? He left soon after the hop house fire, and no one has heard from him since.” A drop of sweat rolled onto my upper lip. I stuck out my tongue and licked its salty wetness from my mouth. Jake was pacing back and forth in the kitchen and didn’t notice.

“Didn’t anyone search for him? He was, what, thirteen or fourteen at the time? Weren’t his parents concerned about him disappearing like that?” Jake asked.

I moved the curved cover of Dad’s old roll-top desk back, pulled open one of the small drawers to one side of the writing surface, and reached into the space.

“I think Claudia called the police and filed a missing persons report,” I said. My fingers searched around the top of the drawer until they found a lever there. I moved it to the right. The back panel of the desk, which looked solid, slid to one side, revealing a hiding space the size of a shoe box.

“I checked the records in the office. I didn’t find any report, just an account of the hop barn fire, arson as the probable cause,” Jake said.

I reached in for the letters but found nothing.

“They’re not here!” I jammed my hand farther into the space but withdrew only a bit of paper dust. “They’ve got to be here.”

“Maybe you put them someplace else.”

“No, I read them late one night. When I was finished, I wanted a hiding place, so I put them here.”

“And you had on every light in the kitchen, right?”

“Well, of course, I did. It was dark. You can’t read in the dark.” My voice was taking on an edge of anger. Then I caught his meaning. “Oh. You mean someone saw me through the window, saw me hide them, and then took the letters later sometime.”