Hounded to Death (10 page)

“How is Caroline doing?” Aunt Peg asked.

“Better than you'd expect,” Margo said. “She's a pretty tough cookie.”

“Even so…”

Margo shook her head. “If you're waiting for hysterics, Caroline won't be the one to supply them. She has entirely too much dignity to play out her grief in public.”

“I assume she'll go home, won't she?” I asked.

“That's not what she said last night.” Margo reached over and swiped a piece of bacon off Peg's plate. “Of course I saw her before she'd spoken to the police. She might have changed her plans since then.”

The thought of her breakfast disappearing into someone else's mouth was enough to motivate Aunt Peg. She angled her plate away from Margo and began to eat.

“She must have been in shock when she found out,” said Bertie.

“I hope,” Aunt Peg said, looking at her friend meaningfully, “that you broke the news to her gently.”

“I didn't break it to her at all. Caroline already knew.”

That bit of information distracted us long enough for Margo to snag a square of toast from Peg's plate.

“How?” I asked.

“I don't know. I didn't ask. It wasn't any of my business, was it?”

I would have made it mine, I thought.

“Speaking of business,” said Aunt Peg. “I know how hard you've worked to pull this symposium together. What a shame that last night's events have spoiled it all for you.”

“What do you mean?” Margo looked surprised. “Charles's death is certainly unfortunate, not to mention untimely. But I'm afraid I don't see how his demise will have any bearing on my symposium.”

Margo was either very naïve or else so totally focused on her own goals that she was failing to see the big picture. I wondered if that was why Aunt Peg had been concerned about sending her to break the news to Caroline the night before.

“For one thing,” said Bertie, “look around the dining room. I'll bet there isn't a single person here who's talking about dogs, or the lecture they went to yesterday, or the ones they plan to attend today.”

“So there's a temporary departure from the agenda,” Margo said, waving off our concerns. “Of course what happened is big news, but people will get over it and the symposium will bounce right back. You'll see. By tomorrow, everything will be back to normal.”

“That would be a shame,” I said.

“There's nothing shameful about it. It's human nature, plain and simple. People pay attention to the things that are important to them—”

“And a murder in their midst isn't important?”

Margo gave me a long look. “Have the police ruled Charles's death a murder? I hadn't heard that.”

“Well, no, but…”

It was hard to think otherwise, wasn't it? Did she honestly think that Charles had gone outside, taken off all his clothes, and proceeded to drown himself?

“But nothing,” Margo said firmly. “This symposium offers an unparalleled learning experience. One that will allow a majority of the participants to enhance and expand their careers. They'd be foolish not to take advantage of such an opportunity while they can.”

Eating while I'd been talking, Aunt Peg had managed to finish her food. Meanwhile, my oatmeal was still untouched.

“So,” said Peg, “does that mean everything will proceed as normal?”

“Absolutely. We're right on schedule and none of this morning's programs have been canceled or modified in any way. Everyone will receive full value for the registration fees they've paid, I certainly don't want to hear any complaints on that score.”

“The show must go on,” Bertie said.

She was being sarcastic, but Margo didn't seem to notice. She snapped her chin downward in a sharp nod of agreement.

“Precisely,” she said.

W
ith that pronouncement, Margo got up and left.

I doubt if any of us were sorry to see her go. At least now we could stop guarding our food.

I picked up my spoon. Now that my oatmeal had cooled, it didn't look nearly as appetizing as it had earlier. When my stomach flipped over in protest, I gave up and pushed the bowl aside.

“Nice friends you have,” I said to Peg.

“Death does strange things to people.”

“That woman was strange before Charles died,” Bertie commented. Then she looked past me, stood up, and waved.

I turned to see who she was hailing. Alana Bennett was walking through the arched entryway into the dining room. Seeing Bertie, she shifted course and headed our way.

“Are you sure you wanted to do that?” Aunt Peg asked. Her tone made her own thoughts on the subject quite clear.

“Of course,” Bertie said as the other woman approached. “Alana always has the best gossip. If people are going to keep trying to pump us for information, don't you think it would be nice if we actually had some?”

“Darling!” Alana cried.

She and Bertie touched cheeks, first one side and then the other.

I felt more sophisticated just sitting there watching them.

Alana reached for the empty chair. Before she'd even settled in the seat, the waiter was back with a fresh place setting and the ever-popular pot of coffee. By now, he was probably envisioning a tip that would put his kids through college.

Alana looked up at him and batted her eyelashes. Flirting so second nature, she didn't even stop to think about it.

“I'd prefer a latte,” she said.

“Sorry—”

“Espresso?”

The waiter shook his head regretfully.

“All right.” She heaved a loud sigh. “Then coffee will do.”

He filled her cup and withdrew.

“I guess you've heard what happened,” said Bertie.

“Heard?” Alana looked up from adding sweetener in her coffee. “I was practically there!”

No, I thought.
We
were practically there. And we hadn't seen any sign of Alana.

“When?” asked Aunt Peg.

“You know. When Charles met his demise…”

Alana's voice had lowered to a confidential tone. Call me a cynic but I wouldn't have been surprised to discover that she'd already taken half the inn's guests into her confidence. Not only that, but while the gossip was indeed juicy, its validity was highly suspect.

“Funny thing,” said Aunt Peg. “We didn't see you.”

“Of course not. You weren't there.”

“We were,” said Bertie. “We were the ones who pulled Charles out of the water and called for help.”

“No!”

Some gossip queen. She didn't know the basic chain of events—a progression that, by now, was pretty much common knowledge.

No doubt about it, pregnancy has made me snippy. Either that, or these days I simply have less patience with posers and wannabes.

Alana leaned in closer. “Did you see what happened?”

“No,” I said. “Only the aftermath.”

“Somebody murdered him.”

Her voice was still hushed. It was the same low pitch and timbre that kids used to tell ghost stories after dark at camp. And even though I wouldn't have placed much credence in anything Alana said, I still felt a chill slide down my spine.

“Why do you say that?” asked Aunt Peg.

Alana looked at her as if she was daft. “Because otherwise Charles wouldn't be dead.”

“It might have been an accident,” Bertie said.

“It wasn't.”

Whether I agreed with her or not, I envied Alana's certainty. The woman possessed the boundless self-assurance of someone who rarely found herself being corrected.

Whereas I possess the limited self-confidence of someone who's often wrong.

“When were you outside?” I asked, trying to pin her down. For all we knew, she might have passed by the alcove the previous afternoon.

“Just before…you know. Bertie had told me how much she enjoyed using the hot tub.” She glanced at Bertie, who nodded. “So I thought I might give it a try myself.”

“At night?” asked Aunt Peg.

“Why not? I was busy earlier. Besides, I wasn't looking to share the experience with a bunch of other people. I thought it would be more likely to be empty then.”

“Did you see Charles?” I asked.

“Of course. I went walking through the opening in the hedge, saw that the hot tub was already in use, and quickly withdrew. I didn't want to disturb his privacy.”

“Then what?” asked Peg.

Alana shrugged. “I went back to my room, changed out of my bathing suit, and settled down to watch some TV.”

“Did you see anyone else around?” asked Bertie.

“You mean like some big burly guy, wearing a ski mask and skulking around in the shadows? What do you think?”

I thought the whole story sounded like a crock. But then who was I to judge?

“Have you spoken with the police?” I asked. “Did you tell them you were out there last night?”

“No, why should I? Nobody's bothered to ask me anything, and I'm certainly not going to volunteer. All that does is stir up trouble. No matter what they try to tell you in kindergarten, the police are not really your friends. Besides, it's not like I have anything useful to tell them.”

“You seem pretty sure that Charles was murdered,” I said. “Maybe you'd like to discuss that with them.”

“No,” said Alana. “That's what I'd like to discuss with you.”

Uh oh, I thought.

“Charles was a good man, perhaps even a great one. Whoever killed him needs to be found and brought to justice.”

She set her cup down in the saucer so hard that the china rattled. For a moment, I thought it might break. Coffee sloshed over the rim and onto her manicured fingers. Alana didn't seem to notice.

“That's why I'm here,” she said. “I need your help.”

“With what?” asked Aunt Peg.

She's usually quicker on the uptake. Perhaps, considering her low opinion of Alana, she simply hadn't been listening. Because I certainly knew what was coming.

“I want you to investigate,” said Alana. “I want you to find Charles's killer. He deserves that much, don't you think?”

“Yes,” I said. “But no.”

“What a stupid answer.” Alana sniffed. “Say it again in English.”

“You still won't like it.”

“Try me.”

“She said no,” said Bertie.

Alana was unimpressed. “You can't say no.”

“Why not?”

“Because Bertie told me.”

I leveled a glare at my sister-in-law. Bertie looked as though she wanted to slide beneath the table.

“It's what you
do
,” said Alana.

“Not when I'm pregnant.”

“Oh that.”

I'd played my trump card and it hadn't made the slightest impression on her. Was Alana Bennett the only person who hadn't gotten the memo saying that pregnant women could do whatever they wanted? It looked that way.

“Women have been getting pregnant for centuries,” she said.

Even longer, I thought, but I didn't correct her.

“Slave women delivered babies in the cotton fields, then got up and picked more cotton.”

“Thankfully,” I said, “times have changed.”

“Not that much,” Alana replied. “Women still have to keep proving themselves if they want to be taken seriously.”

“I take myself very seriously, thank you.”

“Of course you do. And you should. Because you're good at what you do.”

“Which right now is incubating a baby.”

“Oh please.” Her eyes slid up and down my body. “You hardly even look pregnant. Haven't you ever heard of multitasking?”

Bertie laughed out loud.

“You're not helping,” I said. I might have tossed a piece of toast at her except that Aunt Peg had eaten it all.

“Back up a step,” Peg said. “Why do you care so much about what happened?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“Yes,” the three of us replied in unison.

“Charles was a friend. And he was a nice man. The kind of man who would go out of his way to help someone in need. So it seems to me that that's the least we can do for him.”

Alana paused. She looked around the table. “Besides, if Charles was killed, that means there's a murderer right here among us. Doesn't that worry any of you?”

My hand dropped to my stomach protectively. It seemed to do that a lot these days.

“Certainly it's worrisome,” said Aunt Peg. “But would it be too much to hope that the police might do this job for us?”

“They might.” Alana pushed back her chair and stood. “I guess we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?”

I looked at my watch as she walked away. It was barely nine o'clock.

“Is it just me,” I said, “or is this the craziest morning we've ever had?”

“It's just you,” said Peg, signaling for the check. “Eat your oatmeal, dear.”

 

Detective Wayne waylaid us on our way out of the dining room.

“Do you ladies have a few minutes?” he said. “I'd like to ask a couple more questions.”

I thought longingly of the Ibizan Hound seminar I'd been on my way to, then fell into line when Bertie and Peg followed the detective into the library. He stopped and shut the door behind us.

“Please take a seat,” he said.

We all complied.

“I'd like to run you through the events of last evening one more time. See if there's anything you'd like to add to your story, or any changes you'd like to make to what you previously told me.”

“Does this mean you've determined that Charles's death wasn't an accident?” I asked.

Detective Wayne looked as though that was a question he'd rather not have to answer.

So we sat and looked stubborn. At least I liked to think we did.

“Yes, it does,” he said finally. “I would prefer it if that information doesn't leave this room.”

“It already has,” Bertie told him.

“Pardon me?”

“Everybody's been speculating about what happened. Consensus seems to be that Charles was murdered. The fact that you haven't admitted as much doesn't change that one bit.”

“I see.”

The detective hadn't sat down when we did. Now he dragged over a chair and hunkered down opposite us. Coming down to our level. Trying to encourage us to feel comfortable and talkative. It was beginning to look like we might be there a while.

“The fact that so many people believe that Mr. Evans was murdered leads me to think that he must not have been a very popular man,” he said.

“On the contrary,” Aunt Peg replied. “Charles had many admirers among the symposium participants. He's had a long and useful career in the dog show world. Which is what made his behavior yesterday all the more puzzling.”

The detective leaned forward, bracing his arms on his thighs. “In what way?”

Aunt Peg was talking about the keynote speech of course. We'd explained the night before, but maybe not well enough, because it didn't look as though Detective Wayne had understood. It was sometimes hard to make outsiders see what a small, close-knit community the dog show world really was. And how likely it was that we would collectively hold many views in common.

And one of those views was that the animal rights activists, the people who wanted to stop all dog show and breeding activity, who wanted to ban the keeping of dogs as pets, were unequivocally the enemy of everything we held dear. So for Charles to stand up in front of a gathering of his peers and lend his not-inconsiderable support to their theories was almost unthinkable.

And yet that was exactly what he had done.

Aunt Peg tried once more to explain. And once again, Detective Wayne listened. He made no attempt to interrupt or hurry her along. He simply sat back and took in everything she had to say.

At the end he said, “So you're telling me that Charles Evans might have made himself some enemies yesterday?”

“It's possible, yes.”

“We're talking about people who are here, staying at the inn, for the symposium.”

“Yes,” Peg said again. “However, I must admit I would find it hard to believe that anyone would have resorted to murder to address their grievances. Charles was a reasonable man, at least he always had always seemed so in the past. It's more likely that someone might have attempted to argue him out of his newfound beliefs rather than committing bodily harm.”