The Marsh Madness (9 page)

I
DIDN’T NEED Sammy to tell me that they couldn’t stop me from leaving town. The police like to say that, to get you rattled. Of course, I had no intention of leaving town. Where would I go? I wanted to relax and live my life without the threat of a murder or accessory to murder charge hanging over my head.

I went over everything that happened one more time with Sammy. I answered questions. I tried to make sense of the events at Summerlea. When Sammy headed out at last, I walked with him to the front door. We found Vera, glowering. Castellano and Stoddard had just left, and she was still angry about their visit. There was no sign of Tyler Dekker. I wanted to thank him for sending Sammy and for being there for me. Face it, I needed a hug.

The signora fluttered in and did her little anxiety dance, crossing herself a few times. She was making a second attempt at lunch because of interruptions.

“For heaven’s sake, Fiammetta,” Vera grumped. “We can’t be eating all the time.”

“Yes. You eat, Vera!
La polizia!
No, no, no! Must eat.” Apparently the cure for anxiety caused by police was food. I got that.

I said, “I wouldn’t mind a bite. Our lunch was interrupted by the police and being questioned by cops always makes me hungry. Sammy, will you join us?”

He shook his head and tapped his watch. Of course, he didn’t really know what he was missing. And it crossed my mind he might want to trim his waist before any future encounters with Castellano.

Vera grunted and I waved good-bye to Sammy.

I figured lunch would help me regain my emotional balance and give my serotonin a boost, after being considered a murder suspect had pretty much depleted it. I’d be in better shape if I figured out what I could do to help myself.

I tried calling Tyler Dekker, but his phone went right to voice mail. Of course, he was on duty and, in fact, may have been meeting up with Castellano and Stoddard. He wouldn’t be free to talk. I decided against leaving a message, as I wanted to thank him face-to-face. And, you know, lip-to-lip.

The signora must have worked out her own anxiety by preparing her very special huge meatballs with the light tomato sauce made from her own harvest in the garden last fall. These are like a secret weapon in the war against feeling bad about anything. The signora serves them all alone on a plate with an artistic swirl of sauce around them.

Of course, there was soup first and crusty bread and a lovely green salad, but the meatballs were worth the wait.

Kev’s place was set. I asked the signora to take it away, as Kev wouldn’t be joining us. I didn’t want Detectives Castellano and Stoddard to swan back in and accuse us of harboring him. Of course, we almost certainly would harbor him. We didn’t have to, as he’d vanished.

I figured they hadn’t bugged the place, so I felt free to talk. Vera was focusing on her
Times
crossword and didn’t seem to be bothered in the least.

“Vera, what struck you about our luncheon at Summerlea?”

She glanced up, surprised. “Don’t know what you mean, Miss Bingham.”

“I mean, what impression did you have?”

She shrugged. “Standard old money.”

“And the place?”

“Typical summer mausoleum.”

I snorted. Van Alst House could answer to that description on a slightly lower level. And of course, it wasn’t merely seasonal. “What about the people?”

“Didn’t pay any attention to them.”

“Okay, so did it surprise you to learn that Miss Troy and Thomas the butler were not who they said they were?”

“Weren’t they?”

“Not according to Detective Castellano. She strikes me as the type who gets her facts straight.”

Vera fixed me with a long gaze. “I think you’re right there, Miss Bingham. She strikes me that way too.” She turned her attention back to her puzzle. I no longer existed. The signora took advantage of this to slap a massive slice from one of her plum cakes in front of me.

“Eat!” Apparently she figured I was eating for two, one of whom was Uncle Kev. But being grilled can definitely make a girl hungry.

“So, Vera,” I said, once I’d done justice to the plum cake. “They weren’t who they said they were. Who do you think they were?”

“I have no idea, Miss Bingham. Is that important?”

I kept my cool. “It is if you don’t want one of us to get arrested.”

“Why would one of us get . . . ? Do you mean
you
, Miss Bingham?”

“Not necessarily. Did they not ask you if you went upstairs?”

“They did. I said no. That was absurd.”

“Did they ask you if Kev or I went upstairs?”

“I said I wasn’t paying attention to you.”

“Oh. But we didn’t go upstairs. You must have known that. The staircase was visible from the parlor.”

“Was it?”

“Yes. You didn’t notice us at all?”

“My mind was on getting the Marsh books.”

I sighed. “Yes, I can see how it would be.”

“Don’t be flippant.”

“I am not being flippant, Vera. This is very serious. The police say that Chadwick was murdered. Didn’t Detective Castellano tell you that?”

She shrugged. “She may have mentioned it. But that’s nothing to do with us, surely.”

“They believe that one of us went to the second floor—possibly using the elevator we didn’t know about—bashed Chadwick Kauffman over the head with a statue and then pushed him down the stairs.”

Vera huffed, “Why on earth would we do that?”

“We had no reason to hit Chadwick over the head, but it’s obvious that pushing him down the stairs after he was dead was a ploy to cover up the crime.”

“To cover up the crime?”

Really, for someone who had read all those mysteries, she seemed deliberately obtuse. “To make it look like an accident.”

Vera rolled her eyes. “There are these procedures called autopsies. Everyone knows that would be obvious to the pathologist.”

“Right. Everyone with a working television set or anyone who’d read a couple of police procedurals, but that’s not the point.”

“What is the point, Miss Bingham?”

“They think we wanted it to look like he slipped and fell.”

“That’s ridiculous. Stupid.”

“Yes. But didn’t they ask you all these questions, Vera?”

“They did not.”

“They don’t think you did it, but they believe Kevin and I did—”

“What an outrage! Mr. Kelly would never do such a thing.”

“Of course he wouldn’t. And
neither
would I.”

“They certainly have a nerve. I shall have to ensure that he has legal representation.”

“Thank you, Vera. I appreciate that,” I breathed. “If we can find him.”

“The poor man must have been traumatized by the very suggestion of culpability.”

“Um, indeed.” I didn’t bother to say that Kev was in the wind before any accusations had been made. Vera wasn’t altogether informed about Kevin’s history. And that was a good thing. Trust me.

“This is a bad situation,” Vera muttered.

“That’s an understatement. They say they found all of our fingerprints at Summerlea. And our prints are all on file.”

“Well, of course, they found them. We were in the house.”

“Listen to me, Vera. They also say they found Kev’s prints on a statue that was used to kill Chadwick.”

Vera’s always pallid, but she paled more. “Nonsense.”

“It could be nonsense. They are allowed to lie to suspects.”

“I am not a suspect.”

“But they didn’t tell you. They told me.”

“Are you telling me that you are a suspect?”

“I think so. They may even think that you and I are shielding Kevin.”

“Preposterous.”

“Exactly, because we don’t know where he is.” I was pretty sure that Vera would shield Kev even if she did know where he was. For sure, I would have. “But Kev didn’t kill Chadwick and he didn’t go upstairs.”

“I see now why that question was important.”

“Exactly. But you weren’t paying attention, so you can’t swear that we never went upstairs.”

“I didn’t realize the implications.”

“Mmm. Were you paying attention, Vera?”

“Not in the least.”

“Well, there you have it. It’s only me, and as you know, Kevin is my uncle—” I wasn’t a hundred percent sure that Vera did know this, as we’d been vague on that detail when Kev joined the household as gardener, handyman, troublemaker.

“Yes, yes. Old news, Miss Bingham.”

“So they have a very good reason to suspect that I would lie to protect him.”

“Oh dear.”

“And they may believe—and who could blame them—that I was also involved.”

“I would never employ someone who would do such a vile and uncivilized thing.”

Uncivilized? That was one way of describing cold-blooded murder.

“It gets worse.”

“How could it be worse?”

“I think they believe there was a conspiracy to kill Chadwick. And that we were part of the conspiracy.”

“What?”

“That’s what they think.”

“But this is dreadful.”

“Yes, it is. And that’s why we have to be careful that we don’t implicate each other. That’s what they’re counting on.”

“But why would we conspire to kill him? He wanted to sell some books. We wanted to buy them. Everyone was satisfied. What reason could there be?”

“I don’t know. But once the police come up with a theory, we’ve got real trouble.”

*   *   *

I WAS SURPRISED by a text from Tiff. I had known she was in port today, but still wasn’t expecting a text, because
there must have been a million more interesting things to do in Aruba.

Wow, I was so happy to get to port today! They sure work us hard, but the crew are friendly, and all I’ve really had to deal with was a few sunburns and some seasickness. I’m off to enjoy a few hours of well-deserved R & R. Our next stop is Cartagena, in three days. Hope all is well in HF.

I sent Tiff a smiley face with sunglasses on in reply. It was all I could manage, and I wasn’t going to dump any of the current nastiness on her. There was nothing she could do from Aruba.

Meanwhile, my life was hardly relaxing. I kept expecting a knock at the door and the reappearance of the two detectives waving a warrant for my arrest or to search the house.

Before the detectives returned, I needed to check something. I pulled on a heavy sweater and dug my red rain boots from the cupboard by the back door again. I could hear the wind howling, so I jammed a wool hat over my hair, covering my ears, and even picked up mittens. So much for spring. This was a curling-up-in-a-chair-to-read kind of day, and if it hadn’t been for the police ruining the mood, I would have been catching up on those Ngaio Marsh books. But I was worried about Uncle Kev. It was one thing for him to hide under the bed in case the cops came, but he’d left in the middle of a meal and missed his regular snacks as well as the makeup lunch. That was out of character.

I clomped through the back garden, avoiding the stubborn lumps of blackened snow that had survived our long, cold winter. It was easy enough to follow the muddy path that Kev must have created. What could he have been doing there? Whatever it was, I hoped he was still hanging around doing it, because I needed to tell him what was going on with the police and what had happened to Chadwick Kauffman. And
he really needed to know that the police were saying that his fingerprints were on the statue that had killed Chadwick.

I trudged around behind a tight row of trees that had been planted as a windbreak near the edge of the property. “Kev!” I yelled. There was nothing but the wailing of the wind.

Behind the trees was not Kev, but a collection of odd-looking objects. First, what looked like a primitive stone fireplace or stove. It seemed to be connected by pipes to a few barrels. Some gallon jugs stood around, empty, but ready for business. One barrel was shattered, the staves scattered widely. That explained the puffs of smoke.

I sighed heavily.

Kev had built a still on Vera’s property, and the construction of this highly illegal system coincided with the arrival of the police, soon to be back with a search warrant, to start inspecting Van Alst House and probably stalking around the property as well. Kev, Kev, Kev. I knew when I got the chance to blast my darling uncle, he’d claim that I’d never cautioned him against building a still there.

That was true.

I just needed to remain calm.

I whirled when I heard a rustling behind me. Kev stood there with a sheepish grin on his face.

“What is this?” I shouted. So much for remaining calm.

“Gonna be a nice little moneymaker, Jordie, once I get a few bugs ironed out on the distribution side.”

“Get rid of it.”

“Jordie, I can’t. How could I do that?”

“The cops will be all over the property within hours. I don’t care how you get rid of it, but do it. Do you want to get the ATF on our case too?”

“The ATF? That would be the worst thing that could happen.”

“Actually, the worst thing will be if you go to prison for life for killing Chadwick Kauffman.”

“What?”

“Uncle Kev, the police said they have your fingerprints on the statue that killed him.”

“What?”

I repeated myself and added, “I don’t know if it’s true, but that’s what they’re saying.”