A Rare Murder In Princeton (30 page)

She looked at him. What could she say? How could she get rid of him?

“Could I have a glass of water?” he asked.

She couldn’t refuse a man’s request for a glass of water, could she? “All right,” she said. She turned and started for the kitchen. Buster followed her. “Ice?” she asked automatically.

“Please,” he said.

“I wish George had an ice maker,” she said, feeling compelled to say something as she pulled out a tray of ice cubes and popped it over the sink. She put ice in a glass, filled it with water, and turned to hand it to him.

“I saw Amelia this afternoon,” she said, trying to make conversation as she handed him the water.

“I know you did.” Buster took the glass of water, staring at her as he did so. What did he want? she wondered again. Was he going to wait until George came home? Why hadn’t he called first? Or had he come to see her? He couldn’t know how much she knew. She shivered.

“I like your house,” she said.

Buster still stared at her. If only Nick—or George—would show up. She started out of the kitchen, but Buster did not move. Then habit, a lifetime’s training in Southern hospitality, took over. She turned and said, “Buster, would you like a drink—something besides water? Tea? Wine? Have you eaten supper—can I offer you anything to eat?”

“Now that sounds good,” Buster said. “I’ll have Scotch on the rocks.”

McLeod put more ice cubes in another glass and handed it to Buster. “The Scotch is on that little chest in the dining room,” she said. “Help yourself. I’ll rustle up something to eat.”

Buster went into the dining room and came back with his glass brimming with Scotch. McLeod took a wedge of Camembert out of the refrigerator, unwrapped it, and put it on a plate with crackers.

“Let’s go in the living room,” she said, taking up the plate. “I’ll build a fire. I’ll take the cheese and crackers in and go get some wood from the porch.”

“I’ll get the wood,” said Buster, to her surprise. They were in the front hall by this time.

An idea came to her. When he had gone outside, she stared at the new burglar alarm beside the front door, trying to remember exactly how it worked. When it was turned on, you had to turn it off when you came home to keep the alarm from going on in the security company’s office. She had turned it off when she came home. But if you were home and heard a burglar, then you could push the red button and the alarm would go off. She pushed it. What harm would it do? she asked herself. And it might do some good.

Buster was back with the wood. She put the plate down on the coffee table and fetched the morning newspaper.

“I’ll build the fire,” Buster said, confirming McLeod’s contention that no man thinks a woman can build a fire.

“Sure,” said McLeod. “There’s the kindling in that little pot on the hearth.

Buster set about building a fire in an odd way, placing the sticks of wood in teepee fashion on top of the newspapers and the kindling, and it took a while. McLeod watched him, still thinking about the burglar alarm. She recalled that the security people would probably telephone to see if it was a real emergency or an accidental button pressure. She started for the kitchen to be near the phone if it rang and on her way gave the red button on the burglar alarm another shove. Maybe two signals would make them move faster.

In the kitchen, she tried to think of other edibles she could offer. Food—or was it music?—to soothe the savage beast—or was it breast? She found a jar of eggplant spread in the cabinet, and was opening it when Buster came back in the kitchen.

“Fire’s going,” he said. “Can I have some more ice?” He had poured more Scotch in his glass.

“Sure,” she said, getting another tray out of the refrigerator and struggling to pop out the cubes.

“Here you are,” she said finally, turning to Buster with the glass of ice and could scarcely believe what she saw. “What are you doing?” she shouted.

He had turned on the burners of the stove and was systematically blowing them out, leaving the gas pouring out. Then he began on the oven.

“Do you want the house to explode?” she shouted at him. “Are you mad? Turn those off.” She moved toward the stove and he reached out and stopped her. She threw the glass of Scotch and ice in his face, and he hit her so hard on the side of her face that she fell down. Trying to scramble up from the floor, she looked at him. “Why are you doing this?” It was ridiculous—even at a time like this, she asked a question.

“It won’t explode,” he said. “I’ll leave and the gas will kill you quietly and easily. You don’t have a thing to worry about.”

Buster had never been exactly charming, but never, with all his bluster, had he looked the way he did right now—hateful and really frightening.

She started again to get up. I’m out of shape, she thought, and I’ve got to get more exercise.

He kicked her in the shoulder so that she fell back.

“When you leave, I’ll just get up and turn off the gas,” she said.

“No, you won’t,” he said. “You won’t be able to.” He turned away from the stove and took a necktie out of his pocket. In spite of her struggles to get away or kick him, or both, he managed to tie her wrists with it.

“You really mustn’t do this,” McLeod said, and thought: I sound like an ineffectual mother. “It’s ridiculous.”

Buster, paying no attention, grabbed her flailing feet and used another tie to fasten them together. She began to bang her tied-up feet on the floor. “Stop it!” she said. “You know, the police will be here soon.”

“Yeah, and so will the Easter Bunny and the Great Pumpkin.” He pulled a third tie out of his pocket and said, “This will shut you up.”

The doorbell rang.

“We’ll just ignore that, won’t we?” said Buster.

This is my last chance before he gags me, McLeod thought, and I better make it good. She screamed. She screamed as loud as she could in the few seconds before Buster clapped his hand over her mouth and then gagged her with the third necktie. Even with the gag, she could still smell the gas.

The doorbell rang again. And rang a third time, as Buster held her down. Then she heard glass splinter and the front door open. Nick Perry appeared in the kitchen door.

Buster relaxed his hold on her and stood up. Then before Nick could stop him, he vanished through the back door. Nick hurried to the stove and turned off the oven and the burners and opened a window. McLeod, on the floor, felt the cold air rush in. She had never dreamed that such cold air could feel so good. She kicked both feet against the floor to celebrate, and Nick knelt to remove her gag. Still kneeling, he pulled out his cell phone and spoke into it—a mixture of numbers and letters, ending with the address on Edgehill. Then he untied her hands and feet.

“Thank you, Nick, thank you,” McLeod said as Nick helped her to her feet. “I was never so glad to see anybody in my life.”

“What happened?”

“Buster knocked on the door, and I let him in. I tried to distract him from whatever he had in mind with fire and food, but he followed me to the kitchen and started turning on the gas jets. When I tried to stop him, he hit me. He knocked me down and kicked me and then he tied me up.”

She was interrupted by the doorbell and loud knocking on the front door. She followed Perry as he rushed to answer it. It was Sergeant Popper.

“Everybody okay?” Popper asked. “How did you get here so fast, Lieutenant?”

“Sheer luck,” said Perry. “How about you?”

“Patrolman Adams and I came to answer a burglar alarm, and just as we drove up, that guy Keaton ran out the back door. We tackled him and he’s handcuffed to Adams in the patrol car.”

“Good work,” said Nick. “You and Adams drive him to the station and book him for assault and battery—for now.”

“Nick, Buster did the murders,” McLeod said, but nobody paid any attention to her.

Popper left and Nick closed the front door. “Are you all right, McLeod? He knocked you around quite a bit. You should go to the emergency room.”

“No, no, I’ll be all right,” she said. “I really will. Nothing is broken, but it was scary—I guess Buster’s crazy. I’m glad you came.”

“Where’s George?”

“He’s at Polly Griffin’s house.”

“What’s her number? I’ll call him and tell him what’s happened. He can come home and look after you. I’ve got to go back to the station to deal with Keaton.”

“Nick, I know Buster is the murderer,” McLeod said as she looked up Polly Griffin’s number. She gave it to Nick, who punched it into his phone. McLeod heard him identify himself, ask to speak to George Bridges, and then give George a brief account of what had happened in his house.

“He’ll be right here,” said Nick. “You need to sit down. Is there a fire in the living room?”

“There was.” They went in the living room to discover that Buster’s fire had gone out. “I knew it wasn’t any good,” she said.

While Nick rebuilt it, McLeod sat on the sofa and talked. “Nick, let me tell you what I found out today. Just before he died, Philip Sheridan told his lawyer he wanted to change his will and leave the
Bay Psalm Book
to another college instead of Princeton. Buster killed him because he couldn’t stand the thought of the
Bay Psalm Book
not coming to Princeton, to what he regarded as
his
collection. I know it sounds nonsensical, but this man really cares about old books. I think it’s the only thing he does care about.”

“I’m not surprised. It backs up what we had figured out. We knew he was our guy.” Nick stood up, dusted his hands, and stood with his back to the fire.

“How did you know?”

“Forensic evidence. His fingerprints were on the cutoff valve for the fire extinguisher system.”

“Fingerprints! Good old-fashioned fingerprints?”

“That’s right. He wasn’t your perfect murderer by any means. I went by his house this evening as soon as I got the report from the lab. He wasn’t there. I decided to come and tell you I couldn’t have dinner here, that I’d have to work forever.”

“I’m so glad you came instead of calling,” said McLeod. “And I’m really glad you broke the glass on the door and came in.”

“You didn’t answer the door, and I noticed the car outside. I checked the license number with the office and it was Keaton’s. That was bad enough. When I heard a scream, I broke the glass,” said Nick. “I’m sorry I broke the glass.”

“Don’t worry about that—I’ll tape a piece of cardboard over it,” said McLeod. “I know how to do that. Nick, I’m sorry I haven’t cooked anything for us to eat. I got side-tracked.”

“I can’t stay and eat anyway,” Nick said.

“Of course not, but I have a lot to tell you about the burglaries and the treasure . . .” Before she could begin her story, George came home and rushed into the living room.

“Are you all right?” he asked McLeod.

“I’m fine,” said McLeod. “Tired. But okay. I’m glad to see you.”

“Likewise,” said George. To Nick, he said, “Thanks for calling me.”

And Nick left, as quickly as George had come home.

“CAN I GET you anything?” George asked. “Have you had anything to eat?”

“No, I haven’t,” said McLeod. “Have you?”

“No, not yet.”

“I hope Polly didn’t mind that you left.”

“She understood,” said George.

“It’s a good thing you bought that burglar alarm, George,” she said.

He looked at her oddly. “Here, eat some crackers and cheese,” he said. “I’ll bring us drinks and then I’ll find something else for us to eat.”

George came back with glasses of brandy and the news that he was heating up some soup and would make some sandwiches. “Now tell me. What’s been going on?”

“A lot,” said McLeod. “Buster Keaton came here and I wasn’t sure whether he was looking for you or me. And he murdered Philip Sheridan and Chester Holmes. And he ran away.”

“You’re not making a lot of sense,” said George. “Or maybe I’m thick. Tell me again slowly.”

McLeod tried to be more coherent. “Buster Keaton came here and rang the doorbell. He hit me and tied me up and turned on the gas. He was trying to murder me. Nick Perry got here in the nick of time—I love it, Nick in the nick—and Buster ran away. But I had pressed the button on the burglar alarm and two policemen came to check out the alarm and they caught him when he ran out the back door.”

It took a few more questions from George before he really understood what had happened.

Then he asked her if the crackers and cheese had been for Nick or Buster.

“For Buster. I thought I could distract him with food,” McLeod said.

“McLeod, you use food to accomplish everything.”

“Food is holy,” said McLeod. “Maybe they haven’t arrested Buster for the murder, but he killed Philip Sheridan and Chester Holmes.”

“How do you know?” George asked.

“Nick Perry told me he had killed Chester. He left his fingerprints on the fire extinguisher. I’m not sure why he killed Chester. But I had figured out he killed Philip Sheridan. Just before he rang the doorbell.”