Set Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries) (23 page)

“I’m just a bit tired.”

“I know, Grandmamma.”

“I’d like to lie down in my own room.”

“It won’t be long now.
 
But…”

She pulled Nina away a foot or so and whispered:

“Things are going to be very difficult for a time.”

“I know, Helen.
 
Whatever I can do…”

“There’s a crowd on the other side of the building.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure they’ll be here, and soon. I know reporters.
 
When there’s a scandal…”

“I understand.”

“There’s one thing I want you to do…really for Grandmamma.”

“Whatever I can do.”

“All right. It’s as I’ve been telling Grandmamma. We can’t go back—we can’t go back there, right now. It’s just…I can’t stay…”

“I understand.”

“So we’ll be staying elsewhere for some days. I don’t know how long.”

“All right.”

“Here is a list…”

She handed Nina a folded slip of paper.

“These are toiletries, a few items of clothing, some sentimental things…they should all be easy to find, and can fit in two small suitcases.
 
If you’d gather them from the house…”

“Of course.”

“Several ladies from the church have keys.”

“It won’t be a problem.”

“it will be such a comfort for…”

But by then the crowd had discovered them, and came rushing around the corner.

It had soon pinned them against the back wall of the hospital.

It was as though they were an exhibit at the state fair.

“When was the last time you saw your husband,
 
Ms. Reddington?”

“Had he been drinking?”

“Does he take drugs?”

“Do you think he died of an overdose?”

“What can you tell us about his last moments?”

“Is it true that he’d been abusing you?”

All of these questions were interrupted by Tomlinson, the attorney, who pushed through the crowd, made his way to Helen and her grandmother, put an arm around each of them, and said in a bullhorn voice:

“Ms. Reddington will not be answering any questions at this time.”

“Can you tell us where she will be going now? Where she’s going to be living for the next days?”

He nodded:

“Arrangements have been made for Ms. Reddington and her grandmother to stay at a hotel in Vicksburg. I’m not at liberty to divulge the name of the hotel. We will be leaving Bay St. Lucy soon, by helicopter. That’s all I can say now about that matter.”

“Can you tell us anything more about what happened to Mr. Barrett?”

“Not at this time. We are insisting, of course, on an autopsy.”

“Has foul play been ruled out?”

“Nothing has been ruled out.”

“Excuse me!”

Helen Reddington extricated herself from the attorney’s grasp, took a step forward, and, ignoring him, addressed the crowd:

“I’d like to make a statement.”

Tomlinson, obviously taken aback, reddened:

“Helen, you don’t have to say anything.”

“I know, but I want to.
 
I want to get this over with.”

“I have to advise strongly…”

“I understand your advice, but I intend to make this statement.
 
Now please allow me to do so.”

Silence.

Helen Reddington continued:

“My husband and I, along with my grandmother, returned to our house around 11:30 last evening, after the performance of
Hamlet
. We were driven home by friends.
 
Several people stayed for some minutes to wish us well, but we were tired, and Grandmamma was exhausted, and so we made our excuses. We went up to bed. My husband routinely takes medication for back pain. He also takes a mild sedative to help him sleep. Within a short time I could tell he was sleeping normally. I went to sleep almost immediately myself. I slept soundly. I knew nothing until first light came through the window, a bit after five. I could tell something was wrong. I’m not even sure how. Clifton was…well, too still. I touched him, and he was cold.
  
spoke to him, and then shouted to him, and then shook him. After that, I knew.
 
I had a cell phone that’s on the nightstand. I called 911, and said that my husband was not breathing. I then continued to shake him and try to make him talk to me.
 
But he was…just cold. After a minute or so I could hear the sirens coming. So I got up, put on a robe, went downstairs, and woke Grandmamma. I told her not to worry, but Clifton was ill, and would be taken to the hospital. After that, the vehicles arrived, and you know the rest.”

Silence for a moment.

Tomlinson stepped forward and was about to speak, but Helen Reddington interrupted him.

“Now there is something further. I’d like to announce that, as of this moment, Mr. Tomlinson is no longer our attorney.”

Stunned silence.

Finally Tomlinson:

“Helen, you can’t fire me.
 
I’m your husband’s attorney.”

“My
 
husband is dead.”

“But…”

“And you’re fired.”

More stunned silence.

Tomlinson spoke.

No words came out of his mouth.

Helen Reddington again, to the crowd.

“My grandmother and I will be staying with a friend in Bay St. Lucy. As for the autopsy—if the coroner’s report deems that foul play has been a possibility, then ordering the autopsy is, as I understand it, his decision. If he does not, then my husband’s body will be cremated day after tomorrow, and it will be done here.
 
Now if that is all…”

It was, of course, not all, but during the moment’s lapse required for the known universe to resume motion according to its eternal laws, a vehicle of some kind rounded the corner of the hospital.

It worked its way through the crowd, honking once, but not needing to honk a second time, its two ton weight and battered bumper constituting enough force to move
The New York Times
easily, and—albeit with a bit more of a struggle—even
People
Magazine.

The vehicle—it was a battered van—stopped five feet from the Reddingtons who, Helen with an arm around Hope, made their way up and into it.

Helen dragged the heavy panel door closed behind the two of them.

And they drove away, John Giusti at the wheel.

Within half a minute, they had disappeared around the corner.

In another ten seconds, Moon Rivard was standing at the same corner, a bullhorn in his hand.

The bullhorn brayed:

“I want all of you to listen.”

All of them did.

“The Reddingtons deserve their privacy. They been through a lot. Now I’m going to have two squad cars go with them. Anybody else wants to tag along, we gonna arrest. I hope that’s clear.”

It was.

And the crowd dispersed.

CHAPTER 15: MEMORIES OF AGATHA CHRISTIE

The rest of the day disappeared somehow in a welter of errand running, question answering, confused blathering, and wondering what in heaven’s name could be happening. But by nightfall, Nina had succeeded in filling several suitcases with items from the Reddington home, borrowing Margot’s Volkswagen which would be used for a pack-mule trip out to John Giusti’s home the following morning, eating eleven or twelve (she’d forgotten which) small meals at various shops and coffee stands scattered throughout town as she dispersed, re-gathered, and dispersed again whatever new gossip happened to be floating around at that particular hour—and in general succeeded in using her brain as much as possibly without actually thinking about anything at all.

It was dark when she returned home. The moon had begun to rise over the offshore drilling rig, which now seemed to serve as a rack for it to sit on, as though it were a white and shining bowling ball ready to be picked up and hurled underhanded toward some as yet invisible heavenly pins.

Barrett’s attorney, Tomlinson, was sitting on the top step leading up to her shack.

He was, incredibly, wearing only slacks and a short sleeved sport shirt.

He smiled down at her.

“Hope you don’t mind. Several people told me where you live.”

“I don’t mind.
 
I don’t think.”

“Don’t worry; I won’t bite.”

“All right.
 
Come on in then.”

She unlocked the door, and he walked in behind her.

In five minutes they were sitting on her deck, sipping iced tea, watching the moon make the waves silver.

A candle burned on the table, flickering orange, its flame dodging subtly this way and that, either blown about by or successfully avoiding a weak breeze from the sea.

Tomlinson was a florid man, and he would always be imposing.

She wondered if the straight chair he sat in would support him, and winced as he leaned forward to put his perspiration-soaked and gleaming forearms on her rickety table.

He smiled.

“I want to thank you for seeing me.”

“Not at all,” she said, knowing very little else to say.

“I’m told you are a very knowledgeable person about the town and about what goes on here. I’ve had talks with Mr. Bennett.”

“Yes, Jackson.”

“He admires you a great deal.”

“Well. My husband Frank hired Jackson a good many years ago.”

“So he said. You know, I assume, that Mr. Bennett has been employed by the Reddingtons to handle their affairs now.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“There were several calls made this morning and afternoon; it’s all official now.”

“And you are…”

“I’m fired.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Goes with the job sometimes. I’m sure your husband could sympathize.
 
I’ve been told that he was an attorney.”

“Yes. That happened from time to time. We always made it through.”

“I’m sure you did.”

He paused, looked around.

“It’s marvelous out here.
 
I wish I had such a place.”

“You live…”

“In an apartment, Upper West Side. Business requires it.”

“I understand.”

“Someday though.”

They were silent for a time.

Finally he continued:

“People around town seem to trust you. I thought you comported yourself admirably in the courtroom several days ago.
 
I had to make you look bad.
 
I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s all right.”

“But now…”

He sipped his tea.

OK, out with it.
 
Out with it.

“Now, I have to get some things off my chest.”

“All right.
 
Go ahead.”

“You understand, this must all be confidential. If I thought you’d tell other people…”

“I won’t.
 
What is it?”

He breathed deeply, then continued:

“Clifton Barrett was not an admirable man. I represented him in his various…affairs. That was my job. It did not mean I admired him.”

“All right.
 
I can understand that.”

“I have no right to tell you what I’m about to say now.
 
But someone has to say it. Someone—other than myself—needs to know it.”

“Go on.”

“Mr. Barrett was planning to divorce Helen Reddington.”

“I know.”

“You what?”

“I know.
 
Mr. Tomlinson, Helen was my student at one time.
 
Now I look upon her as a friend.”

He nodded.

“I should have known, then. Of course she would not have kept the matter strictly confidential.”

“No.
 
She needed to talk to someone.”

“There are rumors about…well, about liaisons, sexual affairs that she may or may not have been involved with.”

“She wasn’t.”

“Photographs…”

“Fakes.”

“You’re certain of this?”

“I know Helen. I know her upbringing. She’s a girl from Bay St. Lucy. She had the misfortune, Mr. Tomlinson, of being extremely beautiful and extremely talented. She went to the great city of New York just as one of the tourists here goes out into the great Gulf of Mexico. She wound up in the clutches of something very vile. Something that was eating her.”

Tomlinson nodded, slowly.

“That may be correct. Mr. Barrett preferred…well, younger women.”

“Girls such as Helen.”

“I prefer to say ‘younger women.’
 
If I allowed myself to call them ‘girls’…”

“You wouldn’t like yourself very much.”

“No.”

There was a moaning, wailing sound from somewhere out at sea.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“A whale?”

She shook her head.

“No.
 
Too close to shore. Sometimes we get noises like that. I’m not sure anyone who lives here knows what makes them.”
       

They sat for a time, listening to the disappearing sound.

Tomlinson was still looking out over the water when he continued:

“There were also financial matters.”

“I know about those, too.”

“I had, a year or so earlier, advised Ms. Reddington to pool her resources with her husband’s. His resources were somewhat less than she’d been led to believe.”

“You lied to her.”

“I acted on the advice of my client. I simply presented things in a particular way.”

“He lost,” Nina said, “most of his money. Now he was planning to use made-up scandals to divorce Helen and take all of her money.
 
As well has her grandmother’s house.”

“Arrangements were to be made that would have allowed Ms. Reddington to remain in her home until…”

“…until she died or had to be put in a nursing home. I know.
 
Good of him.”

“He was, as I say, not in all respects an admirable man.”

“We can probably agree on that.”

“But he is dead now.”

“Yes, he is.”

“And, Ms. Bannister, I’m not a Shakespearean scholar as you are.”

“I’m not a scholar.
 
I’m a retired English teacher.”

“You know a great deal.
 
But I was at the performance of
Hamlet
last night. And one line does present itself to me at this moment.”

“What’s the line?”

“’Murder will out.’ There is another phrase. ‘Murder most foul’.”

There was little response to that, and Nina was not much inclined to talk about Agatha Christie. Finally, she could only ask Tomlinson what she’d been avoiding asking herself all day:

“You think Clifton Barrett was murdered?”

“Don’t you?”

“I have no reason to believe that.”

“Really? The man had a bad back. He took a pain killer, and he took a simple medication every night so that he could sleep. Otherwise, he took no drugs. Last night he went to sleep as usual.
 
He never woke up.
 
Can you explain that?”

“No.”

“The divorce which was to ruin his wife financially, and probably professionally, is now never to happen. All financial records are confidential, and in the hands of Mr. Bennett, who is now her personal lawyer.
 
Mr. Barrett has no professional agent, preferring to have me—along with himself—act as his sole business representative.”

“I can understand that, given the way he must have done business.”

“I’ll let that lie for now.”

“All right.”

“But you must remember that Ms. Reddington is now residing, along with her grandmother, at the residence of her old lover. She is back in the arms of Bay St. Lucy. The money that the city was to pay to Mr. Barrett is now due—a good deal of it, even after expenses for the production—to her. This lover, by the way, publicly threatened, in my presence and your presence, to kill Mr. Barrett.”

“That doesn’t mean he did it.”

“It means he had motive. They both had motive.”

“Mr. Tomlinson, are you saying Helen and John poisoned Clifton Barrett?”

He shook his head.

“No.”

“Good.
 
Because if you do that publicly…”

“I won’t have to say it publicly, Ms. Bannister. The County Coroner will do that for me.”

Nina stared at him.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve just been informed that there will be an autopsy.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning at seven o’clock.
 
I believe I know what that autopsy will show.”

“Which is?”

“It will show that Clifton Barrett died of a lethal drug overdose. Now there’s only one woman who could have administered such an overdose, and that is Helen Reddington.”