Murder Actually (6 page)

“I'd be thrilled,” he said. “Are you free tonight?”

We fixed our ‘date' for the Remington Tavern at six and I let Julia pull me away from the crime scene.

“What was that about?” Julia exclaimed indignantly. “I thought we agreed I had dibs on Hunky Jack!”

I returned her look in exasperation. “First of all, there's no such thing as ‘dibs' after fourth grade. Next, I thought you wanted to solve these murders? We need to get all the information we can and what better place to get it than the All Hallows Police Department?”

Julia didn't look entirely convinced, but I managed to soothe her ruffled little feathers and promised that at the end of the night Sergeant Jack would receive no more than a hearty handshake.

You'd think by now I'd know better than to make promises.

 

 

 

 

I sighed and threw myself across the bed. I'd been struggling with the zipper at the back of my dress for a considerable time and was hot and tired. I remembered the beginning of my relationship with Grant, when a stuck zipper would've been the subject of laughter and soft kisses on my neck. But then things had changed. I'd put on a little weight, and the zipper was a source of embarrassment rather than foreplay. Grant would have a comment for the struggle, some slight rebuke, or worse, one of his little jokes about my extra pounds:
guess you shouldn't have had the last éclair, cookie, scone, piece of pie, etc.
His casual comments relating to my appearance gradually descended into criticism.
If you want to wear those sandals you should make sure your toes are done
, he would say with exasperation. I would look down at my chipped nails in rhinestone sandals and calmly ignore his remarks. Wasn't this the same man who had slowly disrobed me while quoting
‘A certain wantonness in my Elspeth's dress
…'? But maybe that very carelessness of dress, so charming at twenty-seven, evolved into eccentricity at thirty-five? A scarf tied too hastily or a missing button was cause for alarm rather than endearment, a sign of the cognitive and aesthetic decline that marked old age.

I reached behind me once again and sought the tiny bit of metal; wincing as a sharp pain burned down my shoulder and neck. Got it. I zipped myself into my little black dress and looked in the mirror.

I looked pretty good. I didn't have long curly lashes like the girls in my books, but with a heavy application of mascara I could fake it. I thought I looked like a choppy Jane Eyre with my green eyes and short, blonde hair. I wore a simple black dress and had on my pink mules, a pink wrap, and tucked a pink rose behind my ear. I picked up my handbag and said goodbye to Blue. He opened one eye to glare sullenly and then went back to sleep. He clearly didn't approve of my dating habits.

Sergeant Jack and I were meeting at the Remington Tavern, a comfortable old restaurant with broad black beams, paneled walls, and a massive stone fireplace. I followed the ancient cobbled floor past walls lined with frigate prints and maritime charcoal etchings. A group of lattice bay windows were open along the street front letting in a cool breeze from the Hudson.

Sergeant Jack was waiting and had already ordered me a glass of white wine (points, by the way, for calling Julia and finding out what I liked to drink; don't think she didn't tell me about that), and presented me with a single rose. I was touched by the gesture and realized I hadn't been on a date for a long time.

The conversation didn't sparkle at first, but after a few glasses of something that hadn't come from a box, I started to warm to the occasion. Since I had no real interest in Jack, I was able to choose my food without consideration for either my breath or my waistline and ordered the Caesar salad and duck confit. I fully intended to get the crème Brule for dessert and eat every mouthful. I figured if I kept my calorie intake to around three hundred a day for the next week I'd break even by Saturday. As I pictured the delights of food and drink ahead I decided that pseudo-dates were the way to go.

“What can you tell me about Jasper Ware?” I leaned towards the candle in the middle of the table as Sergeant Jack reached over to refill my glass.

“Let's not talk about work,” he said huskily.

Yikes. This could be tricky.

“Oh,” I'm ashamed to say I stuck my lower lip out in a little pout, “I'm so disappointed. The case sounds just fascinating.” I leaned towards him and batted my lashes. “You know, Jack,” I cooed. “I'm thinking about making my next hero a cop like you.”

That did it.

He sat back in his chair and picked up his glass. “Oh, well, if you have your heart set on hearing about it.”

Sergeant Jack was a very thorough officer. I learned that Jasper Ware spent the morning of his death in his studio from seven in the morning until nearly ten. He left around eleven and returned at four. He went back to the studio and dictated a few letters to Violet Ambler and then called his publisher around four-thirty. He had a meal prepared by his housekeeper, Mrs. Jennings, at five-fifteen and left for Inkwell Books at five forty-five.

I sat back in my chair and took another sip of wine. “What was he doing from eleven to four?”

Sergeant Jack shook his head. “No one knows for sure.”
“Have you been able to trace the dagger?”

Jack's eyes gleamed. “Did I mention that Alex Ware collects antique weaponry?”

“Does he? That's interesting.”

Jack nodded. “We thought so, but we're also questioning the owner of Thrubwell Antiques. Violet worked there part-time..”

“Were there any fingerprints on the dagger?”

“No. It was wiped clean.”

“How about the scarf?”

“We're still working on it. So far we have Violet's prints…and Nora Ware's.”

I took another sip of wine. “Do you know when Violet was killed?”

“Doctor Lewis puts the time of death somewhere between nine and twelve. We think she was strangled in the studio and her body dragged into the bushes, presumably to delay discovery.”

Sergeant Jack's cell phone rang from his jacket pocket. He took it out and looked annoyed. “Damn. Sorry, it's work, I gotta take this.”

I nodded and unashamedly listened to his conversation.

“They did? When? Okay, I'll be right there,” he hung up and smiled at me ruefully. “Can I have a rain check for the second half of our date, Elspeth?”

“What's going on?”

“Someone tried to break into Jasper Ware's studio. I have to go over and take a look.”

I thought fast.“How about I go with you?”

He was about to protest and I held up my hand. “After you're done we can go back to my place for a nightcap.”

I watched the inner struggle between professionalism and the possibility of sex. Sex won! It always does. That's why my books sell.

“Let's go,” he said roughly, and stood and waited for me to get my bag.

 

* * * * *

 

We drove out to Black Birches in silence. There was a squad car waiting in the driveway and I nearly groaned when I saw Chief Liddell's SUV.

“What's she doing here?” Liddell demanded.

Sergeant Jack grabbed my elbow and pulled me close. “She's with me.”

Liddell raised a brow. “Is she an honorary police officer?”

“We were on a date.”

He snorted. “Some date. Alright, let's go.” He motioned towards the door of the studio and then turned back abruptly. “Don't touch anything,” he barked.

I assumed the last remark was directed at me, but with the looks Jack had been giving my neckline, I wasn't sure.

“We sealed the studio and left Officer Montgomery out here,” Liddell jerked his head towards a shame-faced youth with appalling acne. “He fell asleep. When he woke up he noticed the door was open and someone had gone through the papers on the desk.”

Liddell shot the hapless Montgomery a final glare, and I followed him and Sergeant Jack inside.

The studio, a former barn, had been extensively remodeled into Jasper's version of a traditional country house library and it looked like a set from
Masterpiece Mystery
with polished wood panels, heavy dark furniture, and gleaming brass fixtures. The floors were covered in rich expanses of cherry and a large oak desk took up nearly one wall. Behind the desk, long sets of bookshelves ran from floor to ceiling.

I noticed a loft above the office space, and Liddell followed my glance up the ladder. “According to his wife, Jasper practically lived in here. He usually slept in the loft.”

Liddell and Jack started examining the papers on the desk and I walked over to the bookcase. Jasper's tastes were what I expected:
The Death Dealers, A Day of the Guns, Tomorrow I Die, Survival…Zero! My Gun is Quick, Love My Big Guns
and
The Big Kill.
There was also a copy of
Who's Who in Publishing
and
Bartlett's Book of Familiar Quotations
. Only one book struck me as out of the ordinary and I pulled it from the shelf:
A Case of the Mondays:
Self-Help for Daily Life.

I flipped through the book and saw an inscription on the title page:
To my darling Jasper, all my love, SE.
Tucked inside was a receipt from Captain Swift's Inn in Quammy-on-Hudson. It was dated the day of the murder.

“Look at this,” I thrust the paper at them excitedly.

Liddell examined it and grunted. “Bag it, Jack.”

I looked over the desk as Jack packaged the receipt and book. I noticed an invoice from Ware Realty marked ‘Pinnacle' and a real estate brochure. In the center of the space was an old typewriter, and I recalled Jasper's repeated assertions he could only create his work on an antique 1942 Remington Monarch. At the time I thought it was just another one of his affectations, but apparently he'd been serious.

“Where's all his writing?” Liddell demanded. “Aren't you typewriter monkeys always at it?”

I glanced over the desk. There were no signs of any manuscript or editing; no indication of any work whatsoever except that one line in the typewriter.

I'll let you in on a little secret: writers are ego-driven freaks of nature. We spend the majority of our lives hunched over laptops, notebooks, journals or typewriters, plugging along and doggedly writing, writing, writing. We write on napkins, letters, notes, and greeting cards. We jot down ideas on old receipts, book covers and church bulletins; anything we can get our grubby little hands on when we need a fix.

Jasper had been producing at least one mystery a year since 1999, yet there were no signs of industry in the room. He had an assistant, so there wasn't any need to send his work out for editing, and I remembered Jasper told me that he couldn't stand for anyone to see his work before he'd finished a complete draft.

So where was it
?

There was nothing in the room, not a doodle of a noose or a list of fictitious fishing villages in New England.

Sergeant Jack approached and offered me his arm. “We're all done here, Elspeth. I gotta say this is the strangest date I've ever been on. Shall we?”

I took his arm and we drove back to my house. I was thinking about Jasper Ware, so wasn't paying attention until we stopped and Sergeant Jack pulled me into a passionate embrace.

I told you he was thorough.

My first thought was one of panic: Julia! She'd never forgive me!

The look of shocked horror on my face was probably not was he was going for, and he carefully put both hands back on the steering wheel.

“Are you okay? It's these murders, isn't it?” he asked gently.

I nodded. Who knew dead bodies would be less terrifying than the wrath of Julia Elizabeth Berry if I inadvertently stole her man?

“I'm afraid so,” I said apologetically. “I need to go lie down.”

It sounded pretty good. Blue was waiting and I had recorded one of my favorite programs,
Into You
, and was eager to see where Chloë and Daniel had left off. I clambered out of the car as Jack walked with me to the front door of my cottage.

“This was fun, Elspeth; can we do it again sometime?”

I assumed he meant the dinner part, but I wasn't going to ask. “Look, I have to be honest; I'm still trying to get over my divorce.” It was almost true.

Sergeant Jack looked hurt. “Of course, I wouldn't want to rush you. Please take as much time as you need.”

“You know, Jack,” I said determinedly. “Julia really likes you. She said you're the best police officer we've ever had in All Hallows.”

“Really?” Jack scratched his head. “I'll be honest; I've known Julia Berry my whole life. The only reason I've never asked her out is because she seems…she's just a little…she's kinda scary.”

I was indignant on my friend's behalf. “Scary? What do you mean, scary?”

I hastily shoved aside images of Julia conducting a séance to contact the spirit of Sherlock Holmes even after she acknowledged he was a fictional character. “Julia is an intelligent, vibrant and beautiful woman, and she's deeply committed to advocating for justice. I guess if you think that's ‘scary…'”

I let my voice trail away as he backed up and held up his hands. “Alright, you win; I'll ask her out on a date.”

“Thank you, and could you do me one more teeny tiny favor?” I asked sweetly. “Could you tell me who inherits under the terms of Jasper's will?”

 

 

 

I'm a morning person.

Please don't hate me.

I've always worked best in the mornings. Romance is easy when the day is fresh and new and the world is pink and green and gold. It definitely becomes more challenging as the day progresses.

The morning after my date with Sergeant Jack I set up my laptop on the kitchen table and watched Blue sprawl among the scattered eggshells and toast crumbs. He'd already helped himself to my bacon and I suspected he'd taken a drink of my milk when I loaded the dishwasher but his bland expression gave nothing away. He rolled over to allow me the honor of scratching his fat belly and I glanced around my kitchen.

When I divorced Grant, I'd chosen our old vacation cottage as the perfect location to lick my wounds and indulge in moribund self-pity, but by the time I got my boxes to All Hallows I was too depressed to even cry. It seemed fitting that there was a leak in the roof and a sad pattering of raindrops on the slate floor in the kitchen.

As the days turned to weeks my view of the cottage brightened. I found walnut floor planks beneath the old carpet and after a vigorous cleaning they glowed warmly in the sunlight. Douglas fir beams stretched across the low ceiling and my overstuffed furniture softened the weathered stone fireplace. I hung pictures with wild abandon, filling the space with light and color and stopping the echoes that had sounded so loudly during my first days. I laid dark red rugs in the living area and put up the Jacobean patterned curtains from the old house. I hung a pair of Caldecott prints above the fireplace and displayed my mother's Derby porcelain vases in the late 18
th
century mahogany bureau bookcase. I made sure there were always fresh flowers in the house, which Grant told me was a waste of money, and I counted my victory in orchids, lilies and peonies.

Blue had taken to the country as well, running through the gardens while the men banged their equipment through the arched front door. The old kitchen garden overflowed with pink Campion, narcissi, orchids, and foxgloves, and Blue lost himself in the glorious riot of flower and weed. I felt dementedly happy, like the Red Queen after an execution. Here was all that Thoreau had advocated: gently rolling acres of marrow-sucking goodness. It was a quiet life, dominated by the rural routines of dawn and dusk, fall and harvest, frozen winters and Christmas, spring flowerbeds and Easter Sunday. I felt like I was trapped in a Barbara Pym novel and I liked it; it was the perfect place to work.

I was three chapters into
The Cupcake Chronicles,
and thought I could probably bang out another thousand words if I made a second pot of coffee. I'd only been working a few minutes when there was a knock at my kitchen door.

“Good morning, early bird,” Julia chirped. She looked fresh and pretty in a yellow sundress and matching shrug, and I glanced down at my stained T-shirt and gray sweats in dissatisfaction. Blue jumped down from the table and began nosing through her tote bag.

“Good morning,” I grumbled. “What are you doing here?”

She got out a mug and poured herself a cup of coffee. “I wanted to hear about your date.”

“I had the duck. It was a little dry.”

“Not what you had to eat! I want to hear about Jasper Ware.”

I filled Julia in on the details from Sergeant Jack and my observations from the studio. “My guess is that Alex Ware was in financial trouble over Ware Realty and Jasper's death was very convenient for him. Sergeant Jack told me that under the terms of Jasper's will Alex inherits half a million dollars and an interest in future royalties from Jasper's books.”

Julia whistled. “According to my sources, money is usually the motive for murder,” she said importantly.

“Your sources?”

“Ms. Weebles, Mrs. Murphy, Diesel the Cat, Koko, Yum-Yum…”

Her voice trailed away as I put down my cup. “I can't pretend to share your expertise, but I think passion might've been the motive. As much as it pains me to imagine Jasper in bed with anyone, he was missing for six hours the afternoon before he died and I found that hotel receipt in his studio. I think he was with a woman.”

Julia's eyes widened. “Another woman? Besides Violet? The man was a machine. Maybe I underestimated him.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out her pink and green notebook. “While you were out cavorting with Hunky Jack, I was interviewing suspects. I've noticed that it's always the tiny, inconsequential detail that Ms. Weebles uses to solve the crime, so I tried to write down things just as people told me.”

I leafed through Julia's collection of notes and lists, which read like Agatha Christie's yearbook:
Most Likely to Kill; Least Believable Alibi; Person Who Looks Most Like a Serial Killer
... I stopped and observed Julia.

“Didn't you find it a little embarrassing, interrogating our friends?”

Julia stuck her gum on a rough diagram of Inkwell and shook her head. “You can't look at it that way, Betts. It's business. Just be direct about it and you'd be surprised what people will tell you.”

“I'll do my best. Is there any method to your madness?”

“Well, you know our suspects. I asked them the last time they saw Jasper and Violet and where they were when the lights went out at Inkwell.”

I opened the notebook and started reading. The first statement was from Rose Elliott.

Isn't this exciting? And horrible, of course, but I've always wondered what it would be like to be part of a murder investigation. Provided I wasn't the murderer, which I'm not. Anyway, the night of the book reading I last saw Jasper Ware sometime around seven-thirty. He was talking with Violet near the front door. They appeared to be arguing but I couldn't hear what they were saying. I wish now I'd been closer! It was a little after that when the lights went out. I was standing at the front of the store talking to Sabrina when someone pushed me and I cut my head. It bled a lot but I don't think it will leave a scar. We left a little after eight and went straight home. I'd just gotten into bed when Charlotte Whipple called and said Jasper Ware had been murdered! I couldn't believe it. Sabrina didn't seem too surprised, but then, she knew Jasper much better than I did…

I lowered the notebook. Blue had rolled over and Julia was rubbing his belly briskly. He was so ecstatic he almost fell off the table.
“Don't you think it's strange Rose didn't mention Jasper's engagement?” I asked. “Up until Jasper's murder it was the most interesting part of my reading.”

“Maybe the murder wiped it from her memory.” Julia pushed Blue aside and he jumped down from the table with an aggrieved expression.

“Go outside, Blue,” I commanded.

He sat back on his haunches and looked at me and then slowly sauntered from the room. Julia looked after him and shook her head.

“He's too fat, Elspeth.”

“Aren't we all?”

“Even by our standards he's too fat.”

I sighed and got another cup of coffee. “I know. He's on a diet but what good does it do when he steals food all the time?”

I gestured towards Rose's statement. “Not much we didn't already know.”

Julia smiled. “Hmmm, keep reading.”

“What am I looking for?”

She looked smug. “You'll know it when you see it.”

The next statement was from Sabrina Elliott.

I had a feeling something bad was going to happen at that book reading. Didn't you feel it, Julia? Foreshadowing is what we call it in the literary world. Anyway, I think I last saw Jasper Ware around seven-thirty and saw Violet about the same time. They were near the front of the shop arguing about one of Jasper's books; something about Violet having her name on the cover…

I put down the notebook. “Why would Violet have her name on the cover of one of Jasper's books? Granted she probably did most of the technical work, but Jasper did all the creative stuff.”

Julia nodded. “I thought it was strange myself. It's good to know we're both so uniquely observant.”

As a fiction writer I found this description interesting. I hoped the rest of my deductions would meet our surprisingly high standards.

I saw Violet leave and Jasper walk towards the rear of the store. It was a little after that when the lights went out. I was standing by the front desk with Rose. She fell and cut her head and we left soon after that. Charlotte called around eight-thirty and told us about the murder, so we got dressed and went back to the shop. Elspeth explained about Jasper's arms, one pointing towards the Hudson and the other towards a stack of Bibles, and Rose remembered the scene from
Deadly Harbor
. Poor Jasper, he was a total prick but I really don't see why she… nevermind, don't write that last part, Julia…

I lowered the notebook in surprise. “Sabrina thinks Nora did it.”

“Duh, Betts, half the town thinks Nora did it.”

Alex Ware's statement was succinct.

I last saw both Violet and Jasper just before eight. They were standing near the front door at Inkwell. The lights went out shortly after and Coco and I left once they came back on. I have no idea who could've done something like this.

I put down the notebook again. “He rivals Hemingway. That's the shortest statement ever.”

Julia nodded. “I tried to get more out of him but he was very reluctant to talk to me, claimed he was late for a business meeting or something.”

The next statement was from Coco Ware.

Alex and I got to the book reading around six. I wanted to make sure I was on time since I was soliciting items for the St. Anne's Rummage Sale and I needed to talk to Crispin Wickford about the society column. I think it's so important to support the local arts, don't you? I mean, an artist doesn't have to be talented as long as they believe in what they're doing. That's the way I see it…

I stopped and made a face at the notebook. Support the local arts, indeed. Like I was some kind of charity case. I noticed Julia grinning at me and kept reading.

The reading seemed to go on for ages, but these things always do. I can't remember when I last saw either Jasper or Violet, but I think it was around seven-thirty. Jasper was arguing with Crispin Wickford about the Gazette; something about a loan I think. Violet was making a nuisance of herself, as usual. She wanted to join the D.A.R.! Can you imagine? Someone like that? It makes me shudder. I'm pretty sure her family is from Chicago; very Midwest, salt of the earth type, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I told her I'd think about it (I've found it's always better to avoid a direct confrontation with those types of people) and then I went to get something to drink. The next thing I knew the lights went out. Alex and I were near the front desk and when the lights came back on I saw Rose Elliott lying on the floor. She'd cut her head on something, the poor dear. She's always been so clumsy. I tried to help get her cleaned up but I'm afraid it was a lost cause. Alex came to get me and I think we left a little after eight. Nora called Alex around nine and told us Jasper had been killed. We didn't find out Violet was dead until the next afternoon when the police interrogated us again. Questioning people in the midst of tragedy is in such poor taste, don't you agree, Julia?

I smiled at that last part of the statement. “Coco thinks you're gauche.”

Julia rolled her eyes. “She thinks everyone is gauche. At least I'm not from Chicago; apparently that's a fate worse than being strangled.”

“Who's next?” I asked.

Julia rifled through a messy stack of notes and pulled out a pink legal pad covered in purple ink. I cringed at her methodology and started to read the statement from Crispin Wickford.

I got to the book reading early, around five-thirty, so I could take pictures of the guests as they arrived. Are you writing this down, Julia? Let me know if you need any of the big words spelled out. The reading itself was quick, but Charlotte is pretty good about offering people booze so they'll stick around and shop. I had some of the champagne, it was nasty! My preferred drink is Pimm's and diet lemon-lime soda, but no one offered me any and I was so busy taking pictures I really didn't have time to socialize. I'm afraid I wasn't paying much attention until Jasper and Violet made their big announcement! Engaged and still married! Typical Jasper. He thought because he was a big-shot bestseller he was above any moral code. Anyway, the last time I saw Jasper was near the front door. He and Rose Elliot were arguing about St. Anne's, which I thought was a little strange since Jasper wasn't a very church-y type of person. Sometime around seven-thirty, or maybe later, I noticed I was low on space on my memory card, so I ran across the street to the Gazette office to get my other camera. I was only gone a few minutes, but the party appeared to be winding down when I got back…

“Crispin left the party!” I exclaimed. “He could've gone back to the
Gazette
and gotten the dagger and then come back and killed Jasper with no one the wiser.”

Julia nodded. “As far as I can tell he's the only person who left and then came back again. Keep reading, it gets more interesting.”

I glanced at my watch and saw it was almost eight, and decided to use the restroom before I called it a night. I went in just as Alex Ware was coming out, and as soon as I stepped inside the lights went out! It was a bit awkward so I just sat and waited. When the lights came back on I said goodnight to Charlotte and went back to the Gazette to write up my article. I was there until almost two o'clock the next morning. Like I said, it's very big news to have a murder in All Hallows. Imagine my shock the next day when I learned there was another! I don't know what is happening to this town, but I blame the internet
.